


Prelude: A Soldier and Two Witches (ein Soldat und zwei Hexen)

by ReverendKilljoy, WaskeHD



Series: The Totally Realistic Series of Magical Events [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, British Beer, Chartered Accountancy, Coming Out, Drunk Owling, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, German beer, Holidays, IKEA Furniture, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, International Magical Law Enforcement, Makeup Sex, Memory Alteration, Naked "Full English", Naked Bums, Oktoberfest, One Night Stands, Owl Post (Harry Potter), Romance, That Guy Who Graduates but Keeps Coming Back to Class Parties, acts of terror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23802811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReverendKilljoy/pseuds/ReverendKilljoy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaskeHD/pseuds/WaskeHD
Summary: A Prequel to WaskeHD's series "The Totally Realistic Series of Magical Events," in which I introduce the young witch Sally Hill, her non-magical brother Reagan, and German athlete and witch Angela Beck, who all appear in WaskeHD's series as minor characters.Sally Hill, a young witch, visits her brother in Germany, planning on going to Munich to see Oktoberfest. She meets another witch, and her plans go astray.
Relationships: Sally Hill/Angela Beck
Series: The Totally Realistic Series of Magical Events [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662466
Comments: 31
Kudos: 8
Collections: Totally Realistic Universe





	1. Düsseldorf, 1990

**Author's Note:**

> Brief passages in German, none of which should prove challenging to Google Translate if needed at all. 
> 
> Also, the title has been updated to better reflect that the primary language of this text is English! 
> 
> Finally, note that the story has been re-graded as Explicit rather than Mature, due to some content starting in Chapter 9.

**Prelude: ein Soldat und zwei Hexen**

_1 September, 1990_

_Dear Sally,_

_I was excited to receive your post about visiting. It would be smashing to see you! It sounds from what mum has told me that you could use a break from work. And to answer your question, yes, it will be easy go from here to Munich in time see the end of Oktoberfest, the train runs every night and takes about four and half hours. Jokes aside, the Germans do make the trains run on time. I should be able to ring up a friend to run you to the train station in Düsseldorf, and you could fly home from Munich. All of this assumes you aren’t planning on using Other Means of Transport during your stay. Many local families have provisions for VERY QUICK travel from Düsseldorf during the festival season, so I imagine you can work that out._

_Let me say again, Sis, I am very happy that you will be here even though I have a fairly short leave. I missed you all this last year very much, but the army gives us privates very little say in where and when we go. Let me know what you decide about travel and I will make any arrangements you need here._

_Love Always, Reagan_

Arriving in Germany by portkey was a bit of a luxury, but Sally Hill figured that the expense would pay for itself in reduced hassle and travel time. She was not much of a flier, and muggle transportation was so crowded this time of year. After passing through the German ministry’s checkpoint, she left the transit centre, cleverly charmed to appear to be a small hotel in the Stadtmitte district of Düsseldorf. At the curb, she spotted her brother, leaning casually against the bonnet of an old Opel Corsa. He broke into his dimpled grin as he saw her, and sprang forward to take her case.

She intercepted him and wrapped him up in a tight hug, throwing both arms around him. He was so thin, she thought, where are the cherub cheeks? Where is the little belly? Army life was re-sculpting her brother, and she was not sure she approved.

They were interrupted by a wolf whistle, and she realized Reagan had a friend with him, another young soldier, who was mockingly regarding them from the car. He called out through the open window.

“Hey hey, Ray-ray! Save a little of that for the rest of us, what?” He had a beaming smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Jut like you to monopolize the prettiest girls!”

Reagan grimaced as he hefted Sally’s case, and told her in a sarcastic tone, “Pay no attention to Toby. He was dropped on his head as a child.”

“True enough,” Toby replied at once. “Lucky, too. Too hard to be hurt.” He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, then flashed another bright smile and waved a quick salute in her direction. “Hello, love! Private Toby Anderson, at yer service Marm!”

Sally laughed and introduced herself as she clambered into the back seat of the small car. Reagan wrestled her heavy case into the back, and hopped into the well-worn vehicle.

“Right. What first? Hotel? Food? The afternoon is yours, Sis.” Reagan reached back to ruffle her hair in the way he knew she hated, and that she had missed so much.

“To be honest, I think I could use a drink. Is there somewhere we might get a pint?”

Toby and Reagan looked at each other, then began to laugh.

“Welcome to Düsseldorf, love! Also known as The Longest Bar in the World!” Toby spun the wheel and flew into the road, disrupting the orderly procession of German drivers as he flung the old Opel through traffic as though on a dare. “Beer it is. Why not the Altstadt, Ray-Ray? You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Reagan nodded, and turned back to Sally. “Brauerei Zum Schiffchen, the oldest restaurant in the city. They have smashing Alt, the local beer, and decent food. It shouldn’t be too crazy this early. Suits?”

“That sounds great. I’m in your hands, boys.”

“Don’t give Toby any ideas, love!” Reagan gave a glare to Toby, who continued his inspired and improvisational navigation through the traffic. Toby just smiled and whistled innocently. He was so openly outrageous it was hard to be offended. For a muggle, he was actually rather charming.

Some witches she knew viewed all muggles, all non-magical people, very dimly. Sally, though, had grown up in a family of mixed heritage. Though both her parents were magical, many of her cousins and other relatives were not. The only time she had ever lost house points in her time at Hogwarts was when a mouthy Gryffndor had causally referred to her brother as a squib, because he had not attended Hogwarts. Sally had jinxed the girl’s tongue to the roof of her mouth so thoroughly that the girl had been forced to spend the night in the hospital wing.

She still remembered Professor Flitwick, her head of house, shaking his head sadly, explaining that he admired her loyalty but that a Ravenclaw had to be smarter than openly hexing another student that way. It was not until later that she had reflected on the phrase “ _openly_ hexing.” She had a few other run-ins with the girl and her friends, but never lost another house point.

The restaurant was stunning, centuries old, with waiters in formal blue aprons who joked and teased as they deftly navigated the tables in the dark-wood dining room. The bar provided the rich, deep roasted Altbier in huge steins, a foamy head and a taste that Sally enjoyed very much. While butterbeers and fire whiskies were always lovely, she also enjoyed a good British brown ale, and the Alt was similar, with a lot of body and a frothy head. Sally, a slender young woman, made it a point to eat something so she would not get tipsy and be mocked as a lightweight by her brother and his mate.

The food did not disappoint, far exceeding Reagan's appraisal as "decent." As they visited, hearing about life in the barracks, how the BAOR (British Army of the Rhine) was treated by the locals, the waiters kept them supplied with dark bread with bacon-apple butter, plates of sausages and pickled onions, and fried Camembert cheese with cranberries.

As they moved into the evening, more beer followed, and Sally insisted they have something more substantial to eat before they drank any more. Reagan demolished a plate piled with cold roast beef and mash, while Toby waxed poetically about a plate of fried calf’s liver with bacon, apples, onions, and mash, “just like Mum used to make.”

“I thought you said your mum ran a chippy in Brighton,” Sally said, her face flushed from the beer and the company.

“Well, if she made ‘ _Gegrillte Kalbsleberscheiben Berliner Art_ ’ she’d have made it like this, I don’t doubt,” he replied, shoveling a huge bite of apple and onion into his mouth.

She realized, as she looked down at her plate of grilled turkey breast salad with curry dressing, that Toby was still flirting with her, showing off with his glib use of German and his sly humor. He seemed nice enough, and it was clear for all their teasing that he and Reagan were good friends. She trusted her brother, and knew that he would not allow someone to carry on this way if they weren’t a good person. But still, as often happened when she finally got the message that a boy was interested in her—as more than a friend, or a friend’s sister—she felt oddly deflated. She felt a little down, and a bit sad in a way that she couldn’t define even to herself.

“You alright there, Sis?” Reagan put a gentle hand on her arm. “You've gone awfully quiet.”

Sally smiled, a tight, pale smile, and said, “Sure. Right as rain, but, if you’ll excuse me.” She looked around. “What’s German for ‘the loo’?” she asked quietly.

“ _die Toilette_ ,” Toby replied discreetly. “The ladies’ is back that way, I think.” He waved towards one corner.

“Excuse me, boys,” she said, and headed in that direction.

Finding the proper door, Sally entered, and went to splash some water on her face. She was feeling a bit dizzy, and blamed it on the beer and new foods.

From inside a stall she heard a thud, and then a clatter, and a rapid stream of very agitated and angry German.

_“Dumme Wichser! Ich habe genug von dieser Scheiße. Ich will meine Beine zurück!”_

Sally paused, and called out, hesitantly. “Hullo? Er, are you okay in there? Um, _in Ordung_?” She hoped her language potion would pay off. She had not planned on taking the booster until she went to Munich, and she didn’t trust her German very much.

“Hello, English?” came a frustrated voice with a crisp German accent. “ _Ja_ , it is just the… how do you… the walking sticks? Wait….” There was another muffled sound, and a clatter. An aluminum crutch slid halfway out of the stall as the door cracked open. “So sorry, but could you hand me that, _bitte_?”

Sally helped the woman open the door, and found a young, slender woman with short platinum hair and electric blue eyes, sitting in the stall. She had a clutch purse which had fallen to the floor, spilling its contents, two crutches, tangled in her legs, and her tiny skirt was around her ankles, one of which sported an orthopedic walking boot. The woman had a smudge of mascara under each eye, and appeared to have been crying.

“Oh, dear!” Sally bent down, picking up the crutches and trying to untangle one of them from the twisted skirt. “Dear, please, let me help.”

“Thank you, English.” The blonde pushed both hands though her short hair, sniffed deeply, and sighed. “I think maybe beer and medicine are not so good on the empty stomach, _ja_? I am sorry.”

“No, please, glad to help.” Sally stood the crutches up, and reached to grab the woman’s clutch purse, with brought her very close to the woman, who still had her skirt down. Sally blushed furiously, and fumbled the purse, spilling out a lipstick, a set of keys, and… a wand.

Sally looked at the wand, eyes wide. She looked at the young woman, who was just realizing what Sally was looking at. They shared a knowing look.

“So, English, you too are, as they say, _a Friend of Glinda?”_ The blonde flashed a smile, small, but definitely a smile.

In response, Sally slid her own wand from her bag, looked back quickly through the door for any witnesses, and flicked her wand. _“Disponere!”_

The items on the floor jumped into the bag, which then hopped into the German woman’s lap. Sally realized at that moment that the other woman was nude from the waist down, other than the small black skirt around her ankles. She turned scarlet and turned away, standing stiffly in the stall doorway.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t think, I mean,” she stuttered.

She heard movement behind her, and felt a tap on her shoulder.

“ _Alles gut_ , English. Thank you.” Her touch had made the hairs on the nape of Sally’s neck stand up.

“Please, call me Sally. Sally Hill.”

“Could you perhaps give me a hand with one more thing?” A firm hand gently turned Sally by the arm, so she was face to face with the German witch. The woman smiled, and Sally’s heart raced, her ears felt hot, and she began blinking nervously. The blonde looked down.

Sally looked down. As the woman stood on her crutches, her skirt remained at her ankles.

“Would you, Sally, would you help a girl out?” One pale eyebrow arched, and a smile curled at the corners of her full lips.

“Oh, sure. Sure.” Sally knelt, eyes closed, averting her face, and felt around for the skirt. With some difficulty she found the edge and raised it up. She brushed her hands against the woman’s legs, surely by accident, and felt them to be smooth and very muscled, not bulky, but lean, an athlete or a dancer’s legs. She pulled the skirt up, over the slender hips, and finally opened her eyes. She realized she had been holding her breath, and gulped for air, nose to nose with the blonde.

“Hello, Sally Hill.” Her voice was soft warm, not what Sally thought of as German. “Thank you. Thank you very, very much.”

“My pleasure. I mean—I was happy to, oh God, I mean it wasn’t a problem…” Sally was stammering, and had not realized that her hands were still on the blonde’s hips, thumbs hooked into her skirt.

“My pleasure as well.” Carefully, slowly, the woman leaned in, paused, measuring, and finding no resistance, placed her lips on Sally’s. They kissed.

After a long moment, the blonde witch pulled back, and saw that Sally was motionless, eyes closed, lips still slightly parted, as though frozen.

“Angela,” she said, pronouncing it “ _An-hela_ ” in the German fashion. “My name. It’s Angela.”

Still motionless, eyes still closed, Sally breathed softly, a word, a prayer, “Angela…”

Sally retuned to the table with Reagan and Toby, who looked at her with some concern.

“You okay, love?” Reagan eyed her critically. “We were starting to worry.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sally sat, blinked hard, and looked up. “Wait. What was that?”

“Oi, Ray-Ray,” Toby said, “I think maybe someone has had enough. We ought get her to her hotel.”

“Yes,” Sally said, dreamily, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

She insisted on paying the cheque, much to Reagan’s irritation and Toby’s delight, and they piled into the Opel and roared off to her little hotel. After promising the boys to meet them in the morning, Sally collapsed on the small bed in her room, without even changing clothes.

She looked around, as though she might find someone watching, and then she pulled the front of her jumper up to her nose, and inhaled deeply. An intoxicating smell, something with a mix of warm vanilla and almond, spices like caraway and maybe cinnamon. Underneath was a woody, musky note that was bold but not in any way masculine. She breathed it in deeply, and laughed out loud.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” she gasped, and laughed again.


	2. Muggle London, Halloween 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally has returned to her life back in England, and has started working at a potions shop in Diagon Alley. At home, and at work, and in her heart, nothing seems right. A flashback describes her time with Angela in more detail. After some unexpected news, Sally reaches out...

_Halloween night, 1990_

“Thank you for shopping at Master Llewellyn’s. Happy Halloween.” Sally forced a smile. Normally she enjoyed her new work at the shop, mostly because it was incredibly easy and gave her plenty of time to think, but a potions shop at Halloween was always busy, and she was beginning to yearn for the weekend.

Halloween was in the middle of the week this year. Not just the middle of the week, but the fifth Wednesday of the month, a day of unpredictable magical energies by tradition, and Sally just wanted to go home and curl up with a book. Still, if she was ever going to move out of her parents’ house, she needed to keep working. Especially since this was the third job she’d had in two years since leaving school, each less prestigious than the last.

A frumpy, dour-looking witch in a terrible, squashed hat held out a bottle of Llewellyn’s Lotion of Love, Guaranteed to Put the Pep in His Step. It was a popular seller with wizards of a certain age. “How much, dearie?”

Sally lowered her voice. “6 galleons, Ma’am. But you do know that this potion is for wizards, yes?” Sometimes the older ladies were not too careful about reading the labels posted on each shelf.

“Course I do!” The old woman squawked. “For my Bullfynch, we gots an anniversary coming!” Her voice carried, her tone offended. Sally quick reached out to take the bottle and bag it up.

“Very sorry, my mistake. Tell you what, I’ll knock off galleon. Happy anniversary.”

“Very right,” the old witch muttered, dropping her heavy coins on the counter and heading for the door without a backwards glance.

“Thank you for shopping at Master Llewellyn’s…” The door clattered shut after what Sally fervently hoped was the last customer of the evening. “… and Happy Halloween.” Sally looked at the time, nearly six o’clock. “Close enough,” she muttered, coming around to lock the door and flip the sign around to “Closed.”

She moved around the shop, refilling shelves, straightening up the stock, and generally tidying. She had the next four days off, a reward for working through the holiday rush. She imagined she’d spend it as she spent most days off, cozied up with a book in her bedroom, avoiding her parents. She was still on good terms with some friends from school, but their talk of boyfriends, marriages, careers, and travel had begun to wear a bit thin.

As she finished closing up the shop, and headed out into Diagon Alley to head home, she let her mind wander, as it often did, to her own last foray into travel, the Germany trip. Reagan was still barely speaking to her, as she probably deserved. After coming all the way to Düsseldorf to see him, she had spent barely one evening and an afternoon with him, before practically disappearing to spend all of her time with Angela.

Angela, her ice angel. As Sally entered muggle London, she decided to get a coffee before catching the bus. Apparating always made her restless, and when she got homes he wanted to sleep right away. In sleep, she could dream, while wakefulness held only regret.

Not at what she’d done. Sally didn’t regret her time in Germany. Angela had been a revelation. She was aggressive, impulsive, at least when it came to Sally, but despite her collected take-charge persona, Sally had discovered Angela was a year younger than she, just barely eighteen. Her attitude was half bravery, half nervous uncertainty. When they’d kissed at the Brauerei Zum Schiffchen, Angela later admitted, she’d only been brave and forward enough because she knew if things went wrong, she could walk out and never see Sally again.

As Sally ordered a coffee, something with no caffeine and a lot of caramel which cost far too much of her on-hand muggle money, she recalled the next afternoon, when Sally had ditched her brother and Toby. Sally sat, sipping the coffee and reliving the memories. She and Angela had met, sitting on a bench in a park, talking and holding hands, openly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I am supposed to be at the spa,” Angela had told her with a conspiratorial tone, “for my leg. My ankle, recovering from surgery. I think I should not expect too much, but maybe if it heals well, still I can compete.”

Angela was a professional ice skater, not the best, but very good. Possibly in line to make the team for Albertville in two years, the Olympic team, until she had injured her ankle. She wasn’t even skating. She had fallen in the market, shattering her ankle on a curbstone that turned as she stepped into the road. A freak accident, but one which threatened the end of her lifelong dreams.

“Couldn’t you use, I don’t know, skele-gro? There are great potions for bones now,” Sally had asked, only to see a faraway look in Angela’s eyes, and a sad twist to her lips.

“ _Nein_ , no magic,” Angela had answered softly. “When I chose to compete against muggles, in the muggle sport, I was forced to agree to only muggle means of training, no unfair advantages. This was my life, Sally. My life! I left Durmstrang at the end of my second year, to train full time. I finished my schooling with tutors, fit around my training. Always training.”

Her eyes burning, she had captured Sally’s gaze in her own, held her hands tightly, and continued, “And I would do it again. I would do it all again. The feeling, on the ice, like art and sport as one, the crowd hushed until the last, the explosion of cheering, flowers on the ice coming down as rain…”

As if on cue, it had begun to rain, a sloppy, bitter rain that drove them from their bench in the park, soaking their clothes through their jackets. Without words, Angela leading on her crutches, Sally hurrying after, they had wound up back at Angela’s hotel, much fancier than the one Sally was staying in. They had gone to Angela’s room, and pulled off wet coats, Sally’s wet jumper. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, Angela and Sally had both continued removing wet clothes, wet shoes, and then underclothes. Angela had poured two fire whiskeys in heavy glass tumblers, and steam had poured from their ears. Suddenly, Sally realized that she was naked, and Angela was carefully removing her boot, to show a tightly wrapped ankle and the end of a pink scar. Angela looked up, and without speaking she lifted the covers on the large bed, stark white sheets, soft pillows, the slight smell of lavender.

Sally had moved next to her, and Angela had reach for the switch for the light.

“No, please,” Sally had said, much to her own surprise, softly but firmly. “I want to see you.”

And there, with Angela, with the rain pouring down and fire whiskey on their lips, she had kissed Angela, initiating the kiss for the first time. So many firsts, that afternoon, and into the night.

Sally sighed, looking at her empty coffee cup. As she went to get up to leave, she spied a muggle magazine on the table next to her. As the wireless played the number one song in the land, “Unchained Melody,” by the Righteous Brothers, Sally saw the face of Angela, the face she had not seen since she left Germany, staring up from a sports magazine.

“Beck Retires- What next for Team Germany?” asked the note under her picture in the corner of the cover. Angela’s eyes, those amazing eyes, were covered by heavy glasses, her head down, lower lip thrust out petulantly. She looked beautiful to Sally.

She didn’t pick up the magazine, she didn’t read the article. She threw her coffee cup in the bin and hurried to catch her bus. As she sat, sandwiched between two muggles, she nervously chewed on her lower lip.

 _“Why hadn’t she called?”_ Sally’s mind repeated the unanswerable question, again and again. _“Was it just a game to her? When she said she would meet me in Munich, was it all a lie?”_

“Why didn’t she love me?” Sally asked softly. The older lady sitting next to her on the bus reached over, and patted Sally’s arm in a motherly way.

“It’s all right dear.” Her voice was warm, comfortable as a cup of hot tea on a cold afternoon. “Who can say? Who can ever say?”

Sally made it all the way home, all the way inside, all the way to her room before she threw herself onto her bed, weeping, sobbing in a most unflattering way.

“I’m a fool,” she told herself, “such a fool.”

The next morning, the first of November, Sally washed her face. She took a long look in the mirror. She put on a touch of makeup, something she rarely wore, and made sure she was presentable. She went downstairs, and found her mother and father sipping tea in front of their nearly empty breakfast dishes.

“Well, good morning, Sunshine,” her father said. “Can I get you some breakfast? There’s still some bacon, and I can do you up some toast?”

Before she could answer, her mother told him, “She’s a grown woman, Peter. She can get her own breakfast. Good morning, dear.”

“As I was about to say, mother, I am not hungry. Thank you.” Sally did pour herself a cup of tea, which she sat to drink rather than taking it to her room as was her recent custom.

“Sally, my love,” her mother said, “I know you’re tired of hearing this, but I worry about you. Your father worries too, though he is careful not to let you see it.” Her father averted his eyes, embarrassed, but did not argue the point.

“You don’t need to worry, mother,” Sally sighed into her cup.

“But I do worry,” her mother said, reaching over to put a hand on Sally’s arm. “I do not care that you are working in the potion shop. When I met your father, he was working as a bartender…”

“I owned a pub, Patricia,” her father said mildly. He caught Sally’s eyes, and rolled his eyes slightly, suggesting his wife knew exactly what she was saying.

“And I didn’t care,” her mother pushed on. “He worked hard, he was proud of what he did, and he had his own plans, his own dreams. Your brother seems very happy in the service. It’s not that you aren’t successful by some arbitrary measure, Sally. It’s that you never seem happy. I just want you to be happy.”

Sally put her cup down, and looked at her mother, really looked her right in the eye.

“Don’t you think I want to be happy? Hecate’s frozen tits, mother!”

Her mother gasped, and her father repressed a smile.

“I want to be happy. I want what everyone wants, to be happy in my work, to find something meaningful to do, to support myself, to be in love, to have someone love—” She stopped, aware her outburst had gone too far.

“Is that was this is?” Her mother sounded relieved, as if she finally had a problem she could tackle. “Is this about a boy?”

Sally stood, almost knocking over the dishes on the table in front of her. Tears falling uncontrollably, she grabbed her coat from the hallway, and apparated away with a pop. She almost never apparated, certainly not while she was upset.

Patricia turned to Peter, and nodded wisely.

“It _is_ a boy,” she said confidently. “A mother knows these things.”

Sally sat in the coffee shop. A cold coffee sat untouched in front of her, next to an open magazine which described how “former Junior European champion Angela Beck, following a pair of poor performances in the last month, has announced her retirement ahead of the regionals in December.” Sally had a pad of paper in her hand, and wrote with a fountain pen, as close to a quill as she dared in the muggle coffee shop.

_Reagan,_

_It’s very hard for me to write this letter, but I have held off too long already. First, I want to apologize for everything that happened while I was in Germany. You deserve better treatment, but I hope that at least I can offer an explanation, and an apology. You see, something happened while I was there, something that has thrown my life for a loop and my feet still have not found the ground. As you suspected, and asked me directly in your last letter, yes. I met someone._

_I wasn’t expecting it, and I don’t know how to talk to you about this, but I realize that you are my brother, and have always looked out for me, and always loved me, and if anyone can help me, you can. Yes, I met someone, someone who stole my heart and opened my eyes._

_I must sound so silly. I know that everyone sounds silly, when they first fall in love, but I never thought it would be me saying this. Especially this part… I’ll understand if you need time to figure out how you feel about me after this, but I have decided to trust to love._

_Where to begin? Oh, God. Okay, first, her name is Angela, and I think I am in love with her…_


	3. Diagon Alley, November 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally writes a difficult letter, and finds her luck may be turning after a surprise conversation with the owner of the shop where she works. As the season turns towards Christmas-time, might there be a hint of hope in the air for Sally?

_23 November, 1990_

_Dearest Angela,_

_It’s difficult for me to put this onto the page. I have not heard from you since we said goodbye at the station in Düsseldorf. I counted the hours until we could see each other again. When you were not on the late train, I waited until every passenger had departed. I waited in the station, ignoring the cold because my happiness and excitement kept me warm. When the train came early the next morning, I stood on a bench, something your countrymen clearly did not appreciate, and I scanned every face, looking for yours. You did not appear._

_When the crowd thinned, trickled, stopped, I still stood. My face I am sure was scarlet and pale, as I went back and forth from ashamed to frightened. Frightened that something had happened to you. Ashamed, deeply ashamed and terrified, that I had misunderstood. That I had believed you when you told me that I was special, that you were happy, that you wanted to see me again. I believed you when you told me I was beautiful, something I have never believed about myself before, or since._

_I will not be sending you further letters. This will be my last owl. I do not have any dignity—my pride has been broken. But no matter how much I am hurting, no matter how betrayed and ashamed I feel, I still want to thank you._

_For three wonderful days, you made me feel as if I finally understood what love is. If that is all I ever get from you, I will treasure that memory. I wish you happiness._

_Always yours,_

_Sally Hill._

“Sally, could you come here for a moment.” Master Llewellyn’s soft voice still made Sally nervous, as she took a quick look around the empty shop before stepping to the back, the Master’s brew-shop.

“Yes, sir?” She felt like a schoolgirl, nervous, trying to think what she might have done, or forgotten to do.

Master Llewellyn, tall, balding, hollow-cheeked and studious, was looking through a pair of multi-lensed spectacles at a long scroll of shop ledgers. He was running one finger down a long row of columns. He looked over his spectacles at Sally.

“Tell me, girl, what are these figures here? I don’t recognize these invoice amounts from last month.”

Dry-mouthed and hesitant, she read quickly through the accounts.

“That was when we could not get enough mealworms from your usual supplier, sir. His daughter’s wedding, you said.”

“Oh, yes,” the Master said, frowning. “But tell me, girl, why are these figures lower? Usually when I have to find a new vendor, the prices are marked up. Sometimes steeply.”

Sally twisted her shop apron nervously in her hands. “I am sorry, Master. I looked and looked as you asked, but none of your suppliers had mealworms at any price, with the holiday coming. So I asked around with some muggle suppliers, pet stores, sir. They keep them as feed for reptiles, birds, even fish, sir. They seemed excellent quality, and I was able to get a fair exchange rate from Gringotts. My family has used muggle money before, my muggle relations run businesses, so I’ve used it often. I’m sorry if it was wrong. I should have told you.”

The old master reached out a hand, and touched her shoulder.

“Do you think you are in some sort of trouble, girl? Oh, dear me, I am sorry.” He smiled, a thin smile on his lips but a twinkle in his pale brown eyes. “Sally, you have done me a great service. We should never have been able to compound those Goblin Goblets without those mealworms, and they were a very great seller this year. And those worm! So fresh, so fat! Why, I think we should consider using them in future if we can get them again.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure it would be no problem, sir.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Great product, and a good price, too. Tell me, Sally,” he looked at her seriously, “are you quite happy, selling potions?”

“Master, I appreciate this job very much,” she began, but he cut her off with a wave.

“You misunderstand, my dear. Your are a bright witch, with a lot of clever ideas. Too clever to spend your life behind my counter. Now don’t fret, I am not about to turn you out, dear. I am just thinking, you have really helped me. Your knowledge of muggle money, and their odd ways, has been a great blessing indeed.”

“Thank you, Master.” She smiled at the unaccustomed praise.

“The muggles have schools and so forth, I assume?”

She nodded, trying not to smile at the traditionally dim view many wizards and witches had of the muggle world.

“I would like you to find some sort of schooling in their world, where you could learn more about muggle business. Maybe talk to these relatives of yours. I’d like you to look for more ways that we can benefit. Perhaps if I were to arrange for you to have some time off for this study, we might find a way for us both to benefit from your unique skills.”

Sally blinked rapidly, trying to process all she had been told.

“Thank you, Master Llewellyn. I would very much enjoy that. Thank you.”

A few weeks later, despite the shopping build-up to Christmas, Sally sat in a small classroom on a Thursday evening. She and a dozen others were listening to a silver-haired muggle in a poorly-cut brown suit standing under flickering fluorescent lighting, as he explained the basics of bookkeeping for small businesses. Some of her classmates were struggling to stay awake. Sally’s fountain pen flew across her paper as she took notes, and she smiled to herself. She had spent a half-dozen years in History of Magic with Professor Binns; no mere muggle would ever bore _her_ to sleep.

During a break, she picked up a flier advertising something called Chartered Accountancy, and found herself engrossed. Figures, order, sums and balances. Finally, something in the world that made sense, that could be counted on.

As she rode the bus home after class, she looked out the window, spattered with raindrops that scattered the city lights like stars. It was everyday, mundane, muggle, yet magical as well, and beautiful. For the first time since she had returned from Germany, when she took a breath, it didn’t feel as though a hippogriff was sitting on her chest. She could finally dare to look ahead, instead of back. Outside the streets passed by, scattered with diamonds.


	4. The Three Broomsticks, Christmas Eve 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally attends Professor Flitwick's Ravenclaw House holiday party in Hogsmeade, where temptation leads to serious consequences.

_24 December, 1990_

Sally stood near the exit of a large tent which had been erected alongside the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Despite the snow and a gusting wind, the charmed tent was dry and quite warm. The party, thrown by Professor Flitwick for his older students who had remained at Hogwarts for the holidays, alongside alumni and assorted guests, had become a tradition among the students in Ravenclaw House. Though Sally did not often participate in such gatherings, this holiday season she was making an effort to put herself out more, to avoid the temptation of a warm bed and a book, at least for the holidays.

She watched with a small smile as Professor Flitwick, a Santa Claus hat perched jauntily on his head, made a tray of fire-whiskey eggnogs dance a whirling reel in the air, individual cups breaking the formation to offer themselves to laughing, cheering guests. Talbott Winger, one of the 6th-years in attendance, reached for a hovering cup, only to have the cup zoom up out of his reach, whiz around his head, and rejoin the others dancing around Flitwick. All those watching laughed at his misfortune, with Talbott joining in good-naturedly as he accepted a butterbeer from a nearby guest.

Gilderoy Lockheart, a young wizard with precious curls and a bright smile, bowed floridly to a cup as it passed by, to be rewarded with the cup landing gently on his outstretched palm. His lilac cape swirled dramatically. Quirinus Quirrell, who had been the Muggle Studies teacher while Sally was at Hogwarts, applauded Lockheart, then raised his own cup in a toast to Flitwick. Quirrell had been in a particularly celebratory mood, having announced earlier in the evening that he was taking leave to travel to the Black Forrest, looking to further his research in the new year. He now sported rosy cheeks and a fire-whiskey eggnog-assisted twinkle in his eye as he laughed and smiled. Despite their well-earned reputation for studiousness, no one could honestly claim that Ravenclaw House did not know how to throw a party.

Chester Davies, a lean, dark-haired wizard in beautiful blue dress robes, was making his way through the crowd in Sally’s direction. He had been a Quidditch star in the year before Sally, and she recalled him as a better than average student who had a higher than average opinion of himself. She had already tactfully separated herself from his attentions twice since arriving at the party and was prepared to do so again.

As Davies passed Tulip Kuraso, another 6th-year student, his eyes followed her, lingering on her backside. Sally shuddered, and ducked outside the tent into the cold air. After the warmth and cheer of the party, the air outside was biting, and snow quickly began to accumulate in her wavy auburn locks. She looked into the darkness, interrupted by candles charmed to float in the trees along the streets, and up the hill towards Hogwarts. The Christmas charm and cheer which had been a pleasant diversion earlier now seemed to mock her.

With a sense of melancholy overtaking her, she summoned her cloak from inside the tent, and it flew out and draped itself over her shoulders. Before the tent flap could close, Davies slipped outside with her, his own cloak over his arm and two cups of eggnog steaming in his hands. He flashed a smile.

“Thought you needed some air? Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

“Actually,” Sally said, “I was just thinking—”

He waved away her objections, offering her the warm eggnog. “Here, take this. You don’t want to go from warm to cold like that, you’ll catch your death. No, I insist.”

Resigned, and by nature wanting to avoid confrontation, Sally accepted the offered drink. When he raised his cup, she quickly drained her own, ready to be finished with the evening. The eggnog appeared to have been given a little extra kick, as her face flushed and steam began pouring from the top of her head. She felt a warm burn which started in her stomach and seemed to rise to her blushing cheeks. She blinked, tears in her eyes, and noticed Davies reaching into his cloak.

He brought out a sapphire flask, warmed from within by a fiery liquid, and motioned to her cup. “Care for another snort, my dear? It’s 50-year-old Cumberbatch, a little graduation present a few years ago from Grandfather.”

Her lip curled at being called, “my dear,” but Sally was surprised to hear her own voice saying the words, “What the hell, hit me again, Chester old boy.” She left her hood down, letting the burning drink melt the snow from her hair, clouds of steam hanging around their heads as they traded shots of the rosy, coal-colored liquid.

She found herself leaning against a tentpole, with one of Chesters arms round her shoulders, as he poured sips of liquor between her lips. She regarded him, unsteadily lolling her head somewhat, and asked him, “Let me ask you, Chester old boy, have you ever been in love? I mean, love, like toe-curling love, like gobsmacked, soul-scorching love? You ever been in love like that, Chester old boy?”

“What is love, really?” Davies asked, sympathetically, tipping another swallow of fire whiskey into Sally’s mouth. He moved his arm from around her shoulder to around her waist, so that he was beginning to support her weight as she slumped against him. “I don’t know if love exists, my dear. Maybe there are just people, you know, looking for a little comfort, a little affection?”

“You think so, Chester old boy?” Her words were slurring, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears in the chill night. “You think love is just someone wanting somebody? Wanting to feel that heat, feel that fire, that fire, down there in their belly, that maybe there isn’t love and feelings and, and caring about, and, and dreaming? You think true love isn’t real, Chesser old buoy…” Her words slurred away as her face pressed into his body.

“Why don’t we find somewhere to warm you up?” Davies asked optimistically, his own words little affected by the liquor they had consumed. “Why don’t we see if we can find ourselves a room…”

Sally suddenly stood, wavering, and blinked owlishly as him. Her eyes blazed frighteningly, and he took an involuntary step back. “Thank you, Davies,” she said with exaggerated care. “Happy Christmas.”

She ducked her hand into her robes, withdrew her wand, and with a ripping pop she was gone, the snow swirling in to fill the space she had occupied. Apparating while intoxicated was not only illegal, it was frightfully dangerous.

Davies looked around, peering into the darkness for any sign of splinching, or maybe of Sally’s arrival nearby. After a moment of fruitless searching, he shrugged, and headed back inside the tent looking for warmth, and perhaps a late opportunity if he played his cards right. He didn’t spare a worry for Sally. She was of age, and she could look out for herself, he reasoned.

Sally leaned over the counter of the Express Owl Relay Post main office in Paddington Station, the only office open all night over the holiday. She had a quill in one hand, and the tip of her tongue worked at the corner of her mouth as she labored over her message.

_Angela Dearest,_

_I was wrong. Who am I to deny how I feel? I don’t care why we are apart. I don’t care what keeps you away. You woke my sleeping heart, and if I never see you again I will live with a hole in that heart, a hole formed in the shape of you. When I sleep, I feel your arms around me, and when I wake, it is to the memory of your lips on mine._

_I laugh when I think of moving on. There will never be another who can take your place, so if I am without you, I will live alone, aching for your return. I know this owl will not reach you, or if it does, like all the others, it will find you deaf to my cries. I’m not doing this for you. I send this letter knowing that if I didn’t try one last time to tell you everything in my heart, I could not live with myself any longer. This is for me to say that I was honest with myself. This is for me to say that we were not a fling, not two people, what was it, looking for a little comfort or whatever it was._

_For me, this was love. My first love. My last love._

_I love you, Angela Beck._

_Goodbye,_

~~_Slall ay Sly_ ~~

_P.S. Please ignore the scratch-outs above, I seem to have misspelled my name. Happy Christmas, yours Sally_

The next morning, Sally woke to the light of morning cruelly slicing across her face from the window, whose curtains she had unevenly closed at some point the night before. Not only was there a harsh, vile light stabbing into her brain, but there was also a knocking, a booming, a crashing sound like God bashing bludgers at her with a Quidditch bat. She groaned, which caused further tumult in her poor head, and tried to sit up.

The room tilted wildly, and she suddenly threw herself to the edge of her mattress in a panic. Her stomach revolted, and painful heaving assaulted her belly as she retched, dryly, thank goodness, over the side of the bed. After a few convulsive ripples threatened to empty her stomach, she managed to control herself enough to clamp her jaws closed, and tenderly ease herself upright. Sally had never been drunk before, and the aftermath was proving to be a terrifying surprise. The colossal pounding continued, which for a moment she was concerned might be from inside her skull.

Eventually, she realized she was hearing a dainty grey owl, knocking his beak on her windowpane, a small scroll affixed to a ribbon around his leg. With extraordinary care, she managed to stand, and leaning heavily against the wall, squinting at the impossible light, she dragged herself to the window. The creak of the window sliding open felt as if knives were raking across her grave. She gulped, and finally unrolled the scroll.

Holding it at nose length, she forced her protesting eyes to focus, and she read, line by line, the fine print of the message,

_“Dear valued customer,_

_We are sending you this message to inform you that you have provided insufficient postage for an international relay post delivery. Please pay your outstanding balance of two (2) sickles to the owl bearing this notice. Thank you. Happy Holidays! - Express Owl Relay Post, Ltd.”_

Her eyes squeezed closed, and she slid to her knees. She began to moan.

“No. No. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no…” She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead against her legs, rocking slightly. “What did you do, Sally? _What_ did you _do_?”

The owl hooted, and hopped from foot from foot on the windowsill in agitation.

“Yes, yes,” she grunted. "Just a moment, little fellow. I know this isn't your fault.”

She paid the owl, and watched him swoop away.

She tried to remember exactly what had happened after she arrived at Professor Flitwick’s party. Something about dancing eggnog, and fire whiskey, and Tulip Kuraso's arse.

“Sally, dear!” Her mother’s voice managed somehow to be impossibly bright and slightly accusatory, all at once. “Are you coming down? Your father is ready to open gifts.”

“Just a moment, Mother!” Sally called back.

Carefully, very deliberately, she placed her palms on the windowsill, leaned out slightly, and vomited a vile stream of her stomach contents out the window and into the back garden.

“I’ll be right down, Mother!” Sally added, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, and looking around for her wand to affect a little hasty, magical grooming before facing the activities in store downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have relied on the work of the Harry Potter Wiki at harrypotter.fandom.com for the names and attendance dates of various Ravenclaws. Any error are mine, and should not reflect on their fine work.


	5. Hill House, New Years Eve 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Years Eve brings a celebration at Hill House, and a reunion between Sally and Reagan. The fallout of Sally's revelations to Reagan, her mother's matchmaking, and a "cavalcade of toffs" conspire to drive home Sally's loneliness, and she resolves to leave her unrequited love in the old year, and press on afresh in the new. At least, that was her plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Waske for emotional support and some valuable advice during the formative stages of this chapter.

_31 December, 1990_

“Well, don’t you both look lovely?” Their mother admired Sally and Reagan to their father as they stood at the foot of the staircase. Their father nodded, absently adjusting his own dress robes as the family prepared for their guests to arrive.

“I just wish you would consider changing, Reagan, into something a bit more appropriate for the season?” Their mother looked imploringly at Reagan, the only one of the family not attired in traditional dress robes. Her brows arched, hoping to accomplish with persuasion what she had failed to achieve by guilt earlier in the week.

“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing, Mother.” Reagan spoke calmly, knowing that the best strategy for dealing with their mother was to show no signs of weakness and let her tire herself out, much like landing a stubborn prize while deep-sea fishing.

“I think you look simply smashing,” Sally said, her eyes roaming over his dress uniform, with the close-tailored jacket, the gold buttons and emblems gleaming against the green. He really looked quite smart, and the changes in his physique were certainly evident: broad shoulders, narrow hips, with a lean and hard look about him generally. “I appreciate having the most handsome escort of the evening.”

Her mother sighed loudly. “Why you could not have accepted any of the eligible young men we know as your date for the evening escapes me, Sally, dear. Aren’t you getting too old, really, to rely on your brother for this sort of function? What about that young man who works with your father? What was his name, Peter?”

“Young Winchester, you mean? Promising boy, very promising.” Her father winked at Sally behind her mother’s back. “I see nothing wrong with Sally wanting to not commit to any one lad during the holidays. She has all the time in the world to find the right chap, don’t you, love?”

Sally was glad for Reagan’s military discipline, as his face did not disclose a thing.

“That you, Daddy,” Sally said. “I will admit that I am quite certain that I have not found the man for me.”

“Just a matter of time, love,” her father said indulgently.

“I’m sure you’re right, Father,” she replied meekly.

The “inspection” complete, their parents moved on to giving directions to the staff, including some extra help added for the evening, prior to the first guests arriving. In addition to the magically extended dining room, there was a pavilion with a bar and dance floor in the back garden, and a small battalion of house elves were working in an offsite kitchen, ready to send dozens of different hors d'oeuvres around the estate at a moments notice.

Sally and Reagan found a quiet table near the garden dance floor, watching as the set-up crew put the finishing touches on the tent and tables. Reagan nodded and smiled to a young witch who was setting up the outside bar. She stared at his muggle uniform, took in his dimpled smile and bright eyes, and shyly nodded back.

“Don't you ever switch off?” Sally asked, feigning exhaustion. “She’s working.”

“Parties don’t last forever,” Reagan said reasonably. “Neither will this new figure of mine. Someday I’ll leave the army, and I’m sure I will be back to a moonfaced, Paddington Bear sort of shape. Who will love me when I’m all squidgy around the middle and my hair is thinning like Father’s?”

Despite herself, she laughed. “Only you, Reagan! Only you could make me laugh today.”

“That’s ironic, isn’t it? You finally tell me that you’re gay,” he said softly, looking about to make sure no one could overhear, “and I haven’t seen you the slightest bit gay since.”

“Oh, stop it.” She nodded ruefully. “I have to admit, finally figuring out why I was never interested in any of the parade of blokes Mother pushed through here was comforting, but not exactly joyous. I guess I always thought that once I found someone, I’d understand all the hype about love, that I’d be happy.”

He reached over and took her hand, giving her a comforting squeeze.

“I didn’t know, obviously,” she told him, eyes down. “I mean, about... girls. I just thought at some point, I’d find the right boy. Or, maybe something was wrong with me. Everyone else understood, everyone just seemed to know how to feel…”

“Hey, look at me,” he said. “Really, Sally, look at me. There is nothing wrong with you. I never worried about you, and I’m not worrying now. I had wondered about you perhaps being that way for years, but I figured when you were ready, you’d tell me.”

She laughed, and punched his arm. “For _years?_ And you didn’t say anything to me? I could have used a little guidance, you know?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, love, it never occurred to me that you didn’t know yourself. Of course, I would have been happy to offer you some brotherly advice if I could.”

They sat for a moment in companionable silence.

“So, do you have any idea what’s next?” Reagan carefully avoided mentioning Angela’s name, which they had not even spoken at their parents’ home since he returned on leave. Neither thought their mother would react well, especially during the holiday season of family and tradition which she approached so conservatively, with very clear ideas of right behaviour.

“Honestly, no. I assume at some point I will, I don’t know, meet someone, and try to have a relationship, see what happens.” Her shoulders slumped.“For now, I just can’t forget her. I can’t forget a single detail: how she looked, how she spoke, what it felt like to…” She looked at him quickly, and said awkwardly, “…to hold her hand.”

He squeezed her hand again. “No need to censor yourself, kid. I know a little bit about what it’s like, to love someone. I’m still out there myself, you know, looking.” He glanced towards the bar unconsciously as he spoke. “Never know when you might find the one, eh?”

Sally looked over to the young witch, who had put on her apron and was checking her hair and lipstick in the reflection of a serving platter, surely aware of Reagan’s eyes on her as she did so.

“Why don’t you go say hello, and see if the bar staff needs anything? I’m going to go help Mother. We should be greeting guests soon.”

He stood, tugging his uniform tunic straight and running a careful hand through his razor-precise haircut, surely out of habit rather than need. Without looking away from the bartender, who was now blotting her lipstick carefully on a cocktail napkin, he asked Sally, “You sure, love?”

“Go get her, Tiger,” she said with a small laugh. “No reason one of us shouldn’t have someone to kiss at midnight. Just remember, when Mother’s cavalcade of toffs want to grope me ‘round the dance floor all night, you promised to rescue me.”

“Roger, Wilco,” he said, heading with unconvincing casualness towards the bar. “You’re the best, Sis.”

“I’m sorry, but may I cut in?” Reagan smiled blandly at the young man currently swinging Sally over-enthusiastically around the dance floor. The young man looked at Reagan in annoyance, taking in the uniform, and the serious eyes. He glanced at one of the numerous magical clocks, counting down the time until midnight. If he hurried, he might still find an unattached woman to “happen” to be dancing with at midnight.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, nodding to Sally. “Thank you for a lovely time, and Happy New Year.” Without waiting for her response, he moved off, scanning the crowd around the bar and at the surrounding tables.

Sally embraced Reagan, and let her head rest on his solid shoulder for a moment.

“Thank you, good sir,” she said, lifting her head to plant a kiss on his cheek, careful to not leave any lipstick which he might have to explain later to his new friend, the bartender.

He actually took her hand, and pulled her into the beat of the dance, guiding her around the floor with confidence and grace. His fitness from the army had improved his already capable dancing, and she enjoyed herself for a moment, just feeling the music.

“If only there were more men like you,” she said wistfully, then finished wryly, “well, I should wish that at least one of them might be a woman, it seems.”

“Wishing for _a_ woman,” he asked softly, “or for a _particular_ woman?”

She was silent, and they continued their way around the dance floor, nodding to friends and acquaintances as they passed. She finally answered, after thinking for a long moment.

“I still want her so badly. I mean, she’s my first love, really. But I can’t spend my life crying over a woman I knew for three days, can I?”

“Time to move on?” he asked doubtfully. He hoped she would put this behind her, but he also knew that if he ever found something as life-changing as his sister had experienced, he would be hard-pressed to let it go without a long fight. They were stubborn, the Hill children.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll give myself until midnight to hold onto this dream I have of her, but I’m not carrying this weight with me into the new year. Midnight- start over, a new life.”

“Good for you, love. I’m proud of you.” The song was winding to an end, and he looked at the clock. It was minutes until the stroke of midnight and the arrival of the new year. “Do you want me to stay, and see you through to this new life of yours?”

She smiled, and pushed him gently away. “I see someone over by the bar, looking hopefully this way. Go make a friend, Reagan.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty certain that specific friend is already made. I can swing round there when it’s closing time.”

“Go on,” she said. “I’m going to get some air.”

Sally stood a way from the tent, letting the cold air wake up her mind. She looked at the sky, trying to pick out stars from the clouds and the lights shining from the house. She heard the countdown beginning from inside. She closed her eyes.

“Thank you, Angela, for letting me know that I am lovable, that I am beautiful, and that I am worthwhile.”

She let the cool air on her face bring the blood to her cheeks. She heard the countdown finishing, and took a deep breath.

_“Three!”_

“I’ll never forget you, Angela.”

_“Two!”_

“And I will never stop loving you, Angela.”

_“One!!”_

“And so this is—”

“Hello, Sally.”

Sally’s eyes flew open, and there before her stood Angela. Her hair was wild and her eyes red and tear-filled, yet hopeful.

Sally stared, afraid to blink, scared to believe what she was seeing.

_“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”_

“I got your owl,” Angela said, her tears making bright stars on her cheeks under the lights from the house.


	6. Angela's Story, 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at where Angela Beck has been, and what has happened to her, during the events of the previous chapters. 
> 
> Warnings: Contains some Non-sexual non-consent, depression, and thoughts of self-harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Waske for a reality-check on the POV for this chapter, and bringing focus back where it should have been.

_14 September, 1990_

Angela Beck sat on a hospital bed, showing her irritation with her manager and coach, Herr Voigt, by refusing to meet his eyes, instead staring at the wall with an unconcealed scowl. Her backside still stung from the injection the doctor had given her, and it was tempting to lie down, relieving the pressure on both her bum and her ankle.

Heinrich Voigt, athletics coach, manager, and marketing impresario, stood by the end of the hospital bed, regarding the young blonde. Herr Voigt was wearing a charcoal suit that was much like his Audi: stylish, sleek, and expensive. He himself was not stylish nor sleek, being rather blockish and short, built more like a post box than anything else. He had an expensive fountain pen in one hand, which he spun quickly around his thick fingers in a characteristic nervous habit.

He spoke, his voice surprisingly high and thin, a reedy sound that belonged to a much more delicate man. “Angela, you can talk to me about these ridiculous ideas of yours, or you can continue to be a child.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Herr Voigt.” Angela’s voice communicated her scorn. She kept her head turned away, eyes boring a hole in the far wall. She leaned over and swung her leg up onto the bed, seeking some relief. “As soon as we are finished today, I am also finished. No more surgeries, no more training—finished. I appreciate what you have done for me, but I am ready to move on with my life. I shall start by catching that train to Munich tonight. I will be back in a week to close up our affairs, but tonight I am on that train. On that train…”

She heard her own voice trailing off, and she was suddenly overcome with fatigue. She lay down to rest, just for a moment.

“I only want what is best for you, _kleiner_ Angel _._ What is best for us. _”_ He watched as she surrendered to sleep, and nodded brusquely.

Outside, the doctor waited.

“She is sleeping,” Herr Voigt said without preamble. “No matter the long-term, her ankle must be ready to compete this coming year. Do whatever it takes. Also, she has been very tired recently. Perhaps it would be better if she was sedated at least 48 hours, just for her own good.”

The doctor owned the clinic, and the attached spa and sports institute. He had built a very lucrative practice treating athletes and celebrities, many of them very difficult patients with, how should he say, unique priorities. While the patients and their needs varied, one thing the doctor had learned was that there was always someone like Herr Voigt, making the hard decisions and managing the money. So long as that person was kept happy, the patients and their money continued to come through the doors of his clinic.

Voigt headed to his hotel, looking for some relaxation. He assumed that Angela would have a successful surgery, and that if something did somehow go terribly wrong there was nothing that Herr Voigt could do in any event. It wasn’t as if waiting around the clinic would have any impact one way or another.

_24 October, 1990_

Angela Beck came off the ice, head high, but face deathly pale. Perhaps due to lingering injury, or perhaps the fear of her repaired ankle failing her, her jumps had been tentative, hesitant. Without absolute confidence, a double toe loop had turned into a single, and a triple lutz had turned into a fall. Every skater stumbles. Every skater falls. But never in her life had Angela Beck fallen in competition. As she exited the ice to await the scores, the confirmation of her literal fall from the ranks of the elite, Herr Voigt greeted her with a comforting arm and an encouraging word, at least so far as the cameras could tell.

In fact, he said nothing at all, just went through the motions for the media. As soon as the scores confirmed her elimination from contention, he turned on his heel and walked away. Tenderly, she made her way to the locker room. She unlaced her skates, and looked at the ugly scars that reached across her ankle. She thought about just walking out, leaving her skates and her costumes, but she knew that would just raise more unanswerable questions. Besides, where could she go? Who would look out for her if not Herr Voigt?

“ _You could go to Munich,”_ said a tentative voice in her head. “ _On the train.”_

She hung her head. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had been struggling with, the feeling that something was missing. Now she was having random fantasies of running away. She had never felt like this before the surgeries.

“ _Maybe this is just what failure feels like,”_ she wondered. “ _Is that what is wrong with me?”_

_25 December, 1990_

Angela Beck sat in her flat, a plate of Christmas stollen and a small cup of bitter Turkish coffee on her table as she went through a pile of old post. Letters from the skating federation, from former sponsors, even some undelivered fan mail. Now that Herr Voigt and his assistant Gretchen no longer handled all of her communication, Angela was struggling to work her way through the everyday task of managing her professional correspondence, even as it began to trail off in her retirement. She sighed, and put the envelopes aside. She took a sip of coffee.

She had been invited by her family to come home, to finally have a Christmas with her cousins, her aunts and uncles, and some of her old classmates. She had not spent any real time with them in years. Also Danika, her one remaining friend from Durmstrang, was spending time in Norway with her new fiancé’s family, so there was not anyone her own age to come home to.

It was easier to stay away. Easier to sit and drink bitter coffee, and be driven slowly mad by the feeling that there was something wonderful, something great, just out of sight. Not skating—she had come to terms with that part of her life being over with surprising ease, almost relief. No, there was some elusive thread of happiness just beyond her reach, but whenever she tried to pull that thread, everything unraveled and she was left with nothing but the ache, the lonely hollowness.

She set down her cup, and wondered if this was why so many people took their lives during the holidays. She felt the darkness closing in, and thought of climbing back into bed at 4:00 in the afternoon, and sleeping until the holiday was over. It was then that she heard a rapping on her window.

It took a moment to realize that the sound was real, and not just a new component in her dark imaginings. Pulling her knit jumper tight around her, she approached the window, leaning slightly on a cane. On the sill stood a large, somewhat ragged looking owl. She had a sprig of holly around one leg, and a parchment tied to the other.

Angela never received owls, other than Ludwig, the stout old eagle-owl whose bright orange eyes greeted her every two weeks with her mother’s update on events at home. She did not know this owl, and stood staring at her in confusion until she rapped again on the window pane.

Angela took in the message, and rewarded the owl with a bit of sweet stollen, filled with fruits and dipped in a bit of coffee. As the owl soared away, Angela read the message.

“ _Angela Dearest, I was wrong…”_

Angela slid to the ground, clutching the letter in her hand.

_Sally Hill. Düsseldorf, and the little hotel at the spa. The train to Munich._

She shook herself, and felt the memories sliding, falling back into place. She recalled Herr Voigt, promising her she could leave once he was satisfied that her ankle would be okay for the journey, then the clinic. And then… Nothing. Nothing but a grey ghost-life, a shade, a memory of Angela, living another man’s version of her life. She was tempted to leave the flat at once, to track down Voigt, to exact her revenge, but she knew it had been so long since she lived truly as a witch, she would stand no chance against a devious, slippery swine like Voigt.

She looked again at the letter, which had no return address. Well, Angela Beck had never been afraid of effort. She had turned some talent and a grueling work ethic into an international career on the ice. She could track down one witch in Britain.

Surely, if she could find Sally, if she could explain, there might still be a chance...

She looked out the open window. She leaned out, and with fierce joy shouted out loudly, _“Fröhliche Weihnachten!”_ Her voice echoed around the block of flats.

“Happy Christmas to you, too!” came the reply from her downstairs neighbors, two bohemian students from the arts school, who often stopped Angela in the hall to extend various unaccepted invitations to parties and events on the campus.

She began to plan her trip to England and her search for Sally. She was filled with fear, but also with hope.


	7. Hill House, New Years Day, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Warnings for nudity (not who you think), as well as nudity (probably exactly who you think).
> 
> Will Angela and Sally be able to reconnect?  
> What happened to her brother at midnight?  
> How late does the Knight Bus run after a holiday night?

_1 January, 1991_

Reagan blinked, and scrubbed his hands over his face. He pinched his ears, an old army trick for wakefulness, something about increasing the blood flow to the brain. He really hadn’t had that much champagne last night, had he?

“Cor,” said a throaty, satisfied voice from the bed beside him. “Don’t you look half smug this morning.” A soft, supple arm slid across his chest.

He looked to the side, and remembered exactly why he was so tired this morning.

“Morning, Miss Maureen,” he said, rolling to face the woman largely responsible for his condition. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in some breakfast?”

“Too late, love,” she said with an indulgent smile. “Already here. Bloody ‘ouse elf and all, gave me half a fright, she did.” Beyond her curvaceous form under his sheets, he could see a large platter, with cloches covering various dishes, alongside a carafe of juice, a pot of tea, and a split of champagne on ice.

“Ah, Frida. She really does spoil me,” Reagan said. “And how can I spoil you, this morning, eh?” He leered with a polite amount of interest, while trying not to eye the breakfast dishes too obviously.

“No, go on, Tiger,” Maureen said after a moment’s consideration. “I ‘ave to be getting ‘ome, before my Gran starts to worry. I wouldn’t say no to some toast, mind.”

He rose, not bothering to dress, and she admired his lean form and his compact backside as he buttered a slice for her. “Jam,” he offered, “or marmalade?”

She ducked under the covers, and emerged a moment later, looking about his room.

“Butter, thanks,” she said, “and any chance ‘ave you seen my knickers?”

Reagan handed her the toast, while nodding to the pile of neatly laundered and pressed clothes which had been placed next to the breakfast dishes. Atop the pile was her wand, a slender rosewood rod, tapered, with a noticeable chip out of the handle.

“Ta, love,” she said, taking a generous bite of toast and dropping crumbs into his sheets. “I don’t supposed you could…”

He nodded, and politely turned his back while she stood and dressed. He thought of dressing himself, but as he was heading directly to the shower after, he decided to wait. A pinch to his bum informed him that Maureen was dressed.

“Blimey, Tiger, you aren’t ‘alf fit, are ya?” She looked out the window. “If you don’t mind, love, I’ll just pop myself to the corner, alright? No need to draw attention.”

“Are you sure? I could call you a taxi, or walk you down?”

She laughed. “Taxi, darling? It’s the Knight Bus for me, no worries.”

Reagan began to harbor a suspicion that Maureen might be more concerned to be seen with a non-magical gentleman than to be seen leaving his bedroom at some time after 10 AM on New Year’s Day. He frowned, and said, “At least let me give you eleven sickles for the bus.”

She tipped her head, and regarded him sadly. In the morning light Reagan could see clearly that she was not quite so young and naive as she had acted the night before. He realized that he was probably not the first to offer her bus fare, but was possibly the first to do so out of a sort of chivalry.

“Class, Tiger,” she said, with a clearly sad smile. “Magic or no, some ‘ave class, some don’t. I had a real nice time.”

“Oh, so did—” Before he could say more, she was gone with a soft pop, leaving a rush of air, and little corner of her work apron behind. Looking out the window, he saw her on the corner, her shoulders now rounded and slumping, as she turned and headed towards the main road.

After a shower, Reagan went to check on Sally. He knocked, and went to enter only to find the door handle locked. He knocked again.

“Sally, it’s just me,” he called out. “Everything okay?”

He heard a subdued moan, and muted noises. “Just a second.”

It was closer to two minutes before the door finally opened. Sally, her hair, a wild tangle and her face flushed, looked at him through the cracked door. “Yes? I mean, morning?”

He gave her a serious look. “Are you alright? I just wanted to apologize for not checking on you after midnight. I’m afraid I was a bit distracted.”

“Were you? Lovely. I mean, no bother. Well, I’ll see you later, shall I?”

They both heard the shower running from inside her bath. Her eyes went round and wide.

“Quick!” She pulled him inside, and bolted the door. She flicked her wand at it, locking it magically as well.

“Is there something you want to tell me, love?” He looked at her room appraisingly. It looked as if a cup-winning football match, followed by the attending celebration, had occurred. Upended furniture, a curtain hanging unevenly from a rod now partially detached from the wall, clothes strewn about. The beautiful dress she had worn the previous night was currently in a pile in the corner. No, wait, in at least two corners. And speaking of corners, one of her bed’s corners had collapsed, leaving it listing to one side as though it were taking on water.

He waited, letting the room speak for itself, as splashing sounds and something like a soft singing could be heard from the bath.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sally began lamely, not able to look him in the eye.

The water from the shower had stopped, and he raised an eyebrow, looking towards the door.

“Well, it’s like this, you see,” said Sally, flushing scarlet and gulping nervously.

The door opened, and a slender, athletic woman, totally nude except for a towel over her head and a flexible brace around one ankle, stood in the doorway. She ruffled the towel, drying at her hair, and one electric blue eye peeked out.

“Ah!” The blonde hair that emerged was so pale as to be platinum, short-cropped and wild with a bit of a punk flair. The face, home to–yes–two shockingly blue eyes, also featured a pair of pink lips, high cheekbones, and a single white-gold piercing in the nose. “You must be Reagan, _ja?_ ”

She hopped slightly, closing the distance and letting the towel fall around her shoulders.

“It is so good to meet you! I feel as if I know you, Sally has spoken so much about you!” She pulled him briefly into a hug, then looked about. “Now, where is that cane? I know I had it last night.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Reagan said, torn between watching the beautiful nude witch, or watching is sister trying to will the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

Sally grabbed a silver cane from beside the bed, and a sheet which she then threw over her guest. The woman lowered herself to the edge of the bed, making no effort to cover herself.

Sally looked at her, sighed, and then looked at her brother.

“Reagan, this is Angela. Angela, this is my brother, Reagan.”

“Lovely to meet you, miss,” Reagan said, with a little bow. “I’m sure Mother will be thrilled to meet your friend, Sally.” He regarded Angela skeptically for a moment. “You will probably need shoes, though. Mother can be frightfully stuffy about these things.”

“Go!” Sally said, shoving him towards the door. “Let me, us, get dressed, and we’ll come to your room to talk this over.”

The door unlocked and opened before him, and was already swinging closed as he called out, “Don’t feel the need to dress up on my account!”

He made it back to his room before he collapsed in laughter. Taking a few bites of chilled fruit from the breakfast tray still on his side table, he whistled for Frida. She appeared with a discreet cracking sound, her tea-towel uniform festooned with a sprig of holly berries in honor of the season. Her huge eyes blinked eagerly.

“Yes, young master? Will you be wanting the dishes cleared?”

“A top up, actually. Hot tea, pastries, maybe some of your good cream cakes, those little ones Sally likes. For three.”

Frida looked cautiously at the spot where Maureen’s laundered clothes had been placed previously.

“My sister is bringing her friend,” he said, aware of the highly developed sense of propriety Frida had developed over her years working for his mother.

Frida smiled. “Very good, sir. Nice tea and cakes, for young master, young mistress, and _her_ friend.” She disappeared, taking the cold dishes with her. Reagan pictured his sister’s “friend” as he had first met her, and gave a low whistle to himself as he sat down, looking out the window.

“Nicely done, little sister, very nicely done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one thinks too poorly on Maureen. She's a working witch, doing the best that she can, and found a bit of harmless fun after working a late shift on a holiday. Her prejudices, such as they are, are no more her fault than anyone's. Her only really questionable act was leaving crumbs in Reagan's bed. A small price to pay, in the long run.
> 
> Oh, and Angela isn't a sex fiend or anything... Okay, she may be, but her actions in the morning are more a consequence of growing up around a bunch of very fit, very attractive young athletes who compete in skintight costumes and spend a lot of time in the locker room. She's just not as conservative as these British witches are.


	8. Hill House, March 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and Angela have dinner at Hill House, to discuss Sally moving out, and for Angela to formally meet Sally's parents.
> 
> There is tension, and expensive wine, and questions about... "ice skiing?"

_13 March, 1991_

Sally sat at her parents’ table wearing her best, most uncomfortable dress robes. Angela sat across the table from her, wearing beautiful black robes, trimmed in the same electric blue as her eyes. She wore white gold earrings, and very little makeup, and her hair was somewhat tamed. Sally thought she was heartbreakingly beautiful. Sally’s mother spoke at last.

“Together? Your plan is to take this flat together, in the city?” Her tone was calm, but Sally recognized the disapproval that shaded every word. Her mother was masterful in undercutting a kind word with a glance, or a generous praise by a slightly raised eyebrow. Sally wondered if Angela knew that their plan had just been brutally condemned.

“ _Frau_ _Hill_ ,” Angela began, her accent slightly thickened as she answered before Sally could say anything.

“Please, dear, do call me Patricia. _Mrs. Hill_ is far too formal for,” she paused and took a sip of claret, “such a close friend of Sally.”

She regarded her glass, and spoke with some asperity to her husband, Peter. “So glad we had a few bottles of the ’59, dear. I would not have cared to open a ’47, just _en famille._ Oh, and guest, of course.”

Angela likewise took a sip of claret. It was excellent, perhaps to send a message that Angela was aspiring above her station.

“Patricia,” Angela said, dabbing at her lips with her linen napkin. The wine had added a slight flush to her lips that Sally found entirely and inappropriately distracting. “We have looked at several options. This one seems ideal in terms of location, safety, and price. There is a small office on the floor below, which I plan to use for our business.”

“Business?” Peter looked up, a forkful of cold beef roast with Champagne mustard hanging distractedly in front of him. “What’s this about business?”

Angela looked to Sally, but she could not find her voice. Angela turned back to Peter to answer his question, but Patricia beat her to it.

“It’s something to do with banking, they said, dear. Muggle and magical accountancy, and mixed business, like your cousin Rory’s shop. Do please either join the conversation, or leave us to it.”

Peter stuffed the beef into his mouth, and chewed aggressively. Patricia turned back to Angela, as if fighting through the interruption.

“I don’t imagine the flat can be very large, at that price, on the high street,” Patricia said, eyebrow raised in challenge. “Not without extension charms, which I understand are not in Sally’s budget, at any rate.”

“It’s large enough for us, Mother,” Sally said, surprised at her own voice. She looked at Angela, who slyly winked at her while Patricia was distracted. “There’s a galley kitchen, and a full bath en suite. The bedroom has great light, and just barely overlooks a garden plot with an old oak tree.”

“ _The_ bedroom?” Peter was looking at Sally, his fork now set aside. He steepled his hands, drumming his fingertips together. “So, just the one, then?”

Sally wilted, and looked down at her plate.

“It’s a very nice flat,” she said quietly.

“And the office,” Angela said, trying to revive the previous energy of the conversation, “will be ideal for meeting clients, both muggle and magical. It can be connected to your floo network, _ja?_ And also near the tube station, for muggles.”

“An office, and a flat,” Peter said, his voice already building to a regretful condolence. “And one bedroom. I don’t think there is any way—”

“I’ll have to see it,” Patricia said, catching them all by surprise with her interruption. “I won’t have any child of mine, with or without her… friend, living somewhere unsuitable for a witch of her standing and station.”

“But, Patricia,” her husband began again, a determined look fixed on his face. She waved him off, speaking directly to Angela.

“Perhaps you and I could meet to see this place, and have a bit of a chat. I know Sally still has some affairs to wrap up with old Master Llewellyn. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Sally nodded mutely. The turns the conversation had taken tonight left her feeling decidedly unsure, but cautiously hopeful.

“Enough talk of business and leases and moving!” Patricia turned her attention back to Angela. “Now, explain to me again this muggle sport of yours, ice skiing?”

Sally watched as Angela explained the basics of figure skating, and relayed her own experiences in a series of amusingly self-deprecating stories from her years of competition. Sally watched her mother, keenly aware that she knew full well what ice skating was, as she had gone once to see Reagan play ice hockey, before he had switched to rugby and football as a teenager. She and Sally had watched the children skating before the game, and talked about how clever and beautiful it was.

Her father called Frida for a bottle of fire whiskey, and he poured himself a generous three fingers as his wife and Angela talked. Sally felt slightly green at the sight of it, as she had sworn off hard drinking the previous Christmas.

_16 March, 1991_

Patricia Hill and Angela Beck looked over the small office space, discretely banishing the rain from their coats with a quick charm so as not to drip on the carpets. Patricia, Angela found, had a very critical eye for detail, and noticed a loose stair rail and chip in a window pane which should be remedied before signing the lease.

“I must admit, _Frau,_ Patricia, I was surprised at the the way dinner the other night turned out. I know that Sally was not at all optimistic. She was especially worried about your disapproval. I hope I am not breaking confidences to tell you this.”

Patricia held her fashionable bag in both hands, and nodded. “I’ve always been very hard on Sally. I could never let her brother believe that she was being favored, on account of his, well, of her being a witch, you see. Sally always seemed so easily defeated, a shame, because she’s bright as a newly minted galleon, that one. I just waited for her to come out of her shell.”

“Well, I don’t know if this was the _coming out_ you hoped for,” Angela said, shrugging slightly. She was not about to apologize to anyone, but she respected Sally’s family and did not want to insult them, either.

“Oh, I don’t care about any of that, really. ‘What one does in the school tower counts for naught once the train leaves,’ as my old Herbology teacher used to say at Hogwarts.” She put her hand on Angela’s arm, and spoke quite plainly. “I just want to be sure that Sally was going to be happy, but she wasn’t about to speak up for herself. Also, to be honest, I’m afraid I had to build up a bit of resistance, so when I gave in, her father had no where left to turn.”

“ _Herr Hill_ , Peter, he does not approve of me?”

“Peter is very traditional, in good ways and bad. He’s new money, you see, whereas my family is very old and established. He’s a good man, in his heart, but he would see Sally miserable ‘for her own good’ if we don’t head him off first. So, shall we see this flat? I’m anxious to see where my dear daughter and her… do we say girlfriend? Where you will both be living.”

The flat was very small, but clean, and well built, and you could just see the garden plot out the bedroom window. And sure enough, there was an oak tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Rutgers University's Jack Lynch, for providing much-needed information on fine claret vintages suitable for the Hill cellars.  
> Any errors are my own.


	9. London, January 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and Angela celebrate New Years in their new flat.  
> Discussion of the legal status of lesbian witches in 1992 Europe.  
> Daddy issues.  
> Angela is NOT getting fat.

_1 January, 1992_

Shouting and hollering could be heard up and down the block, as the clock passed midnight and 1992 began. Sally Hill and Angela Beck sat on the stoop outside their building, watching as sparklers and fireworks lit up the slice of sky visible between the rooftops above them.

Angela sat behind Sally, with her arms wrapped around her. Usually, Sally was careful to be more discreet in public, but not tonight. Tonight was a new year, the first they would begin in their own place, together. The world seemed full of possibilities and magic.

“When did you know, love?” Angela asked suddenly.

“When did I what?” Sally replied, still dreamily enjoying the feeling of her lover’s arms around her and the illuminated sky.

“When did you know, that you liked the girls?” Angela, usually so playful, sounded very serious. She leaned her head forward and pressed her cheek to the top of Sally’s head. When they stood, Sally was a half a head taller than Angela, so this was a rare opportunity.

Sally was quiet, so long quiet that Angela began to wonder if the question had overreached, touching on one of the topics that was Never Discussed, like Angela’s stay in the hospital after they met, or Sally’s father. Angela just held her, enjoyed the soft warmth of their bodies being close together.

“It was you, really,” Sally said at last, breaking the fragile silence. “Before, growing up, there was never… Until I met you, until that damned aluminium cane clattered out of that stall and you barged into my life, Hecate’s _hat_ , woman…” She sighed, and pulled Angela’s arms tighter around her. “It’s not girls, you know: it’s you. _Ich liebe dich, Liebste_.”

“I love you also, darling,” Angela replied. Sally’s German was poorly accented and rarely grammatical, but when she made the effort to express her feelings in Angela’s native tongue, it always sent a shiver down Angela’s back, a shiver that turned into something rather different when it reached her hips.

“It will _always_ be you,” Sally added suddenly, turning in Angela’s arms, capturing her lover’s lips with hers. The two witches celebrated the New Year, their first New Year together, their first in their own flat, by snogging each other senseless right on their doorstep. Neither cared at that moment who saw, who noticed, who cared.

Sally stood, at last, and offered her hand to Angela.

“Come to bed, love.”

More fireworks followed.

The next morning, the two witches got up, showered, brushed their teeth, found the basics of breakfast, and then by unspoken agreement, returned to bed. They lay together, arms and legs entwined, with Angela’s cheek pressed over Sally’s heart, and basked in the warmth of their blankets.

“Do you think Britain will ever follow Denmark?” Angela asked softly, her words buzzing against Sally’s breast.

Sally took her time answering, and finally said, tentatively, “You mean, partnerships? Legal unions for people like us? I don’t know. There are so many here who only see the old ways, the traditions.”

“Your father loves you, Sally,” Angela said quietly but firmly. It was a frequent point of sorrow that her father only spoke to Sally when she visited Hill House. He had never seen their flat, never met them out in the city for lunch, never accompanied Sally’s mother when she invited them to events in London’s wizarding world.

“I know he tries to,” Sally said bitterly, “but he only loves the parts of me that fit his view of who I am supposed to be. Mother loves me, and you, and _us_. Reagan I think loves you more than he does me. You’re much more the kind of delightfully mad little sister he hoped for when he was a boy. But Father? Father still tells his friends that his single daughter lives in the city with ‘her flatmate,’ and he tries to set me up on dates with their sons.”

“It’s been a year, Sally. You were surprised, imagine how it must feel to him. And remember, Reagan is the man, the son, who will carry the name. But you are his only witch, his little girl. I am sure he had dreams of walking you down the aisle, of grandchildren home from Hogwarts playing at the gobstones in the halls, all of this. He is allowed to mourn his dreams even though you are not at fault for them.”

Sally was quiet again, but not peaceful. She was clearly in that distracted reverie that she went into when thinking about a difficult problem. Angela knew that it might be minutes, or hours, before Sally came back to the present.

Angela got up and began to collect a few things she planned on taking downstairs to the office later. She gathered a book on goblin banking rules and regulations, and another on depreciation of assets for sole proprietorships. It would be even money which book would be more complex and esoteric, but the two young witches were starting to find some success navigating the intersection of wizard financing and muggle accountancy.

Angela, who still tended to spend as much of the day as possible nude, paying no thought to dressing unless they were going out, looked down at her flat belly.

“You are getting fat,” she told herself sternly.

“You what now?” Sally was looking up at her, shaken from her thoughts.

“My leg is healed, so good as it ever will I think. But my body is used to so much exercise, and this last year, nothing but books and figures. I am thinking the longest walk I took this week was downstairs to the office.” She ran her hand over her toned abs, feeling fat that existed only in her imagination. “Look at me. _Ich bin_ riesig _, eine riesige_ Sau _!”_

Sally laughed, and threw the blankets aside.

“You are most definitely _not_ a huge sow, my Angel.”

Sally began to crawl across the bed, beckoning Angela with a come-hither smile.

“Truly I am not?” Angela’s enormous self-confidence cracked slightly and she let her partner glimpse the need for validation, for adoration even, that had fueled her skating career.

“Truly. Now come here, and I will find some exercise you can do to get that athletic body of yours feeling finely tuned again.”

Angela laughed aloud, and practically jumped to the bed. She flew into Sally’s embrace, and their lips met wildly. Sally, normally the reserved one, seemed particularly eager to prove to Angela that she was still desirable, as Sally left a trail of violent kisses down Angela’s throat. She brought a hand around to cup Angela’s tight, compact bum, feeling the way the skin heated under her hands as she massaged the firm muscles beneath. She caught one of Angela’s pale pink nipples in her mouth, and felt the shivers in her lover as Sally blew across the wetted flesh, goosebumps rising all around on Angela’s small, perfect breasts.

Angela reached a hand in between their bodies, seeking to touch Sally in those ways she knew she loved, but Sally surprisingly grabbed her wrist, and moved to hold it over Angela’s head.

“No, no!” Sally teased. “You are my prisoner, and I will have my way with you!”

Angela’s eyes opened wide, and she whispered loudly, “Oh, whatever shall I do?”

Sally looked Angela up and down, appraisingly, and then rolled her over so that Angela was on her back, and Sally was sliding lower, and lower, between Angela’s lean and sleekly muscled thighs. Sally reached her destination and embraced Angela with the sweetest, crucial kiss, her lover flowing into her mouth like the juice of the ripest peach. Angela bit her lip, hard, somewhat painfully, challenging herself not to cry out.

Sally accepted the unspoken challenge, and moved her hands underneath Angela, lifting her to Sally’s mouth, letting only her teeth, her lips, and her tongue torture the petite blonde witch. Angela endured, hands clawing at the bed, head thrashing to and fro with eyes unseeing. Her body began a series of rippling contractions, shaking across her flat stomach, trembling in her lean thighs, clenching in her bum and hips in a way that threatened to break her loose from Sally’s embrace. Angela devoted every last shred of awareness to her self-imposed edict not to cry out, while Sally eagerly employed every strategy she knew to make her do so.

Sally won.

Later, wrung out like two old dishcloths after much scrubbing, the two witches lay together, sweaty and sticky and sore and glorious. Looking up from where she still lay between Angela’s thighs, Sally pushed a sweat-soaked tendril of auburn hair from her eyes and said, in a raspy, smugly satisfied voice, “Or, alternately, I think there’s a fitness centre opening down the road. You could take a course, or do some workouts.”

Angela raised her head, with great effort, and looked down to where Sally was grinning up at her. She opened her mouth to speak, panted breathlessly a few times instead, and then collapsed back into the bed. Later. She would talk about that later, she decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By 1992, Denmark was the first country in Europe to offer a legal recognition option for same-sex relationships, a form of domestic union. It was one of the first to offer same-sex marriages later. Britain trailed much of the world in recognizing such relationships legally, although there were many informal social solutions, with "unofficial weddings" and other ceremonies common throughout the 1990s and early 2000s.
> 
> Love is love. Let's move on.


	10. London and Hill House, February, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Hill, Sally's father, reacts to unwelcome news at home. Valentine's Day finds Angela and Sally enjoying an unusual Naked Full English. Sally receives a reaffirming owl.

_12 February, 1992_

Sally, Angela, and Patricia were drinking tea and were deep in an earnest conversation when Peter Hill returned home from work, stepping from the fireplace with a swirl of ash and floo powder. He extended his arms briefly, as his clothes were magically tidied by Frida, the Hill family house-elf.

“Hello, darling,” his wife said warmly, rising to welcome him. “How was your trip?”

He took a moment, after nodding to his daughter, to briefly embrace his wife and accept a kiss on his cheek. He did not acknowledge Angela, who had also risen.

“Nice enough, I suppose,” he muttered. “Had to see the goblins. Completion bond assurances are up again.”

“You know, Father,” Sally said, “Angela’s been doing a lot of work with the goblins. She’s just back from a meeting. Barkus, Gurkle, and Stein, the Austrian goblin bank.”

He nodded, but did not reply. He looked at the tea laid out, and turned to his wife.

“Well, I’ve got work to see to this evening. Some letters. Good to see you, Sunshine,” he said, gracing Sally with a brief smile.

“Daddy,” she said before he could vanish into his study for the entire evening as was becoming his habit, “we have some news.”  
“News?” His voice was cautious, as he raised his eyebrows and looked to his wife.

“No, Daddy,” Sally said, “Angela and I. We have something to tell you.”

He finally turned, regarding the unusually subdued blonde witch. He said nothing, and the silence became palpable.

“They’re getting married, dear,” Patricia said at last, unable to stand the tension. “In April, right after Easter. Won’t that be lovely?”

“Married.” The way he said it, it was not a question. He noted that each of the young women wore a thin white gold band, Sally’s with a small diamond, Angela’s with a square-cut ruby.

“Well, we’ve been talking about it,” Sally said in a rush. “It’s been over a year, and the business is starting to take off… We just thought… Well, I was hoping—”

“Nonsense.” He cut Sally off without hesitation.

“I love your daughter, _Herr Hill_ ,” Angela spoke at last, calmly. “She and I are going to spend our lives together. It would mean very much to us if you would—”

“Not really a proper wedding, though, is it?” He interrupted again. “Not exactly legal. You couldn’t have it in the church.”

Angela’s eyes grew cold and hard, her jaw set. Sally spoke quickly, trying to head off an explosion.

“We were talking with Mother about having the ceremony here,” she said. “It’s just going to be a small affair, family and a few friends.”

“Not in my house,” he said, his face beginning to redden, and his tone openly contemptuous. “I won’t have that sort of, of modern _twaddle_ in my house while—”

It was his turn to be cut off. Patricia stepped in between her husband and her daughter.

“Peter Hill,” she said cooly. “You will not–will not–will _not_ speak to our daughter that way. Not in this house, not while I am here. I should think very carefully about what you say next if I were you. This was Selwyn Hall for two hundred years before it became Hill House, and it could be again.”

Gasping with alarm, Sally put her hand to her mother’s shoulder. “Please! Stop it, both of you! Please!”

Peter looked at his wife, his face a battle of pride, anger, and fear. After a long moment, he turned away.

“Frida! I’m going back to the office. Fetch me a bag for a few days.”

In silence, he went to the grate, and took a pinch of floo powder from an elegant Chinese ceramic bowl. He hesitated, perhaps wondering if anyone would try to stop him. Then, with grim clarity, he called out, “ _Hill and Hammacker Offices!_ ” With a swirling twist of fire and ash, he was gone. The room returned to grim silence.

“Oh, Mother,” Sally said at last. “I am so sorry. I never should have asked him. I know how he is.”

Patricia Hill faced the two young witches. Her chin was held high, her face calm, though tears were clearly visible in her eyes.

“Your father is a good man, generally. The moment he and I met, you know, I knew he was the one for me. My parents objected.”

Sally found Angela’s hands taking hers, and she was comforted.

“My father threatened to duel him, right in this room,” Patricia continued. She blinked hard, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. Her voice never wavered. “I knew my mind, and I knew what love is.”

Shelooked Angela and Sally each in the eyes, and then looked at where two gold bands gleamed on their joined hands.

“And I still do,” Patricia said, the emotion at last overcoming her. “I know love when I see it.”

The three embraced, tears falling, together.

_14 February, 1992_

Angela woke to the smell of eggs and sausages frying, and even better, the smell of the dark, resinous Turkish coffee which she loved, and which Sally loathed. She padded, barefoot and nude, to the kitchenette, where Sally was pulling tomatoes and mushrooms from a smoking pan after a quick fry up, while plates already featuring eggs, rashes of bacon, sausages, and toast steamed nearby.

“ _Mein Gott_ ,” Angela swore quietly. “What have I done to deserve this? If Germans broke fast this way, we would have won the War.”

“Quiet, you,” Sally laughed, “or you’re getting mushrooms, too.”

“ _Nein, nein!_ ” Angela moved back, theatrically crossing herself to ward off evil. Her dislike for mushrooms, like her coffee, was one of the few areas where their tastes parted ways.

Angela did a double take as she noticed that Sally, who normally wore a long nightshirt to bed, or at least put one on after waking, was wearing only a long apron. Her lush bum was peeking out, almost begging for attention.

“What can I do to help, my love?” Angela asked, reaching down to cup Sallys arse in her hand.

“I had enough of _that_ help last night, thank you always, love.” Sally slid tomatoes onto their plates, and took the mushrooms for herself. She turned, a plate in either hand. “Now sit! Your coffee will be getting cold.”

Angela sat at their small table, and gave an appreciative eye to the generous cleavage displayed over the top of Sally’s apron as she placed the plates on the table. Sally winked at her, and dropped the apron to the floor before sitting across from her lover.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Sally said. Though she was cheerful and cheeky, there was an undertone of sadness that she could not completely conceal.

“And to you, my Dear One,” Angela said. “And do not worry. I know that with time, your father will…” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence, which she should have thought about before she began it.

“Let’s not,” Sally said, with a brittle smile. “Not today. Let’s just…not. Today is about you and me, my Angel.” She smiled again, and took a bite of bacon.

Angela nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. It was dark as goblin’s blood and as bitter as a spinster aunt. In short, it was perfect.

They ate in intimate quiet, enjoying their closeness, the incongruous nudity, the delicious food. Angela watched as Sally reached for her tea, calculating carefully.

“Maybe you would join me at the fitness centre after breakfast?”

Sally wrinkled her nose and made a face, which Angela found almost irresistibly adorable. “Oh, Cassandra’s _Cat_ , no! That sounds horrible. What would make you think I would possibly want to do that?”

Angela shrugged, waiting for Sally’s teacup to reach her lips once more, calculating.

“I was just thinking, the showers there are very large, and their doors lock.”

The fountain of tea which sprayed across the table caught Angela across both pert breasts. She reached casually down, caught a drop of tea which was clinging to her right nipple, and lifted the drop on her fingertip to her mouth. Her full lips closed around her fingertip, and then removed the finger from her mouth with a soft pop.

“So, is that a ‘ _maybe_ ’?” Angela asked with unconvincing innocence.

_18 February, 1992_

_My Dear Miss Hill,_

_I was so very pleased and honored to receive your owl of 16 February. I have to admit, I was somewhat surprised by your request. Surprised, but delighted!_

_I think fondly of all the children sorted into Ravenclaw, of course, but certain wizards and witches leave me with a particular memory. You were always such a serious young witch in your years here at Hogwarts. An excellent student, of course, but I worried that you lacked a certain necessary joy in magic. You seem to have found a solution to that most challenging of life’s problems, however, and I could simply not be happier. There is no magic greater than that which you have now found._

_To finally address your question: Yes! I would be honored to officiate at the ceremony for you and your Angela. I await your return owl with details, but know that I am at your disposal. Please find, enclosed, a photo from my personal archives of your solo with the Frog Choir during your fifth year. I am sure your fiancée would enjoy seeing you as I remember you best._

_With Great Affection,_

_Filius Flitwick_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all do not think too harshly towards Peter Hill. He represents much better than many the common thinking of his time and his generation. While we would hope that other feelings will prevail, it remains a concern today that young LGBTQ+ people often have more to fear in terms of consequences from their families than they do from peers, coworkers, or even strangers.
> 
> If you are the friend or family member of someone coming out or someone openly living as LGBTQ+, you can learn to be a supporting ally by contacting PFLAG, at https://pflag.org/allies
> 
> "PFLAG is the first and largest organization for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ+) people, their parents and families, and allies. With over 400 chapters and 200,000 members and supporters crossing multiple generations of families in major urban centers, small cities, and rural areas across America, PFLAG is committed to creating a world where diversity is celebrated and all people are respected, valued, and affirmed."
> 
> Thank you,  
> ReverendKilljoy


	11. Perpendicular Alley, Notting Hill, London, April 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Der Tag! The big day arrives for Angela and Sally, with the noted absence of Peter. The wedding, commitment, partnering, whichever they choose to call it, takes place in a lovely hall in Perpendicular Alley, near Notting Hill in London.

_13 April, 1992_

Sally stood, dressed in a pale rose gown, wearing the uncomfortable heels that made her legs look fabulous, swallowing nervously. She really wanted to rub her hands nervously on her thighs, but she was terrified of staining her gown. Instead, she fidgeted with a beautifully printed program, slowly pulling it to bits, creating a very expensive and classy trail of confetti around the small anteroom of the event hall.

The door opened, and she turned at the sound of beautiful cello music which now filled the room. Her brother stood there, resplendent in his full dress uniform, leaning into the room. He gave a low wolf whistle.

“Wowzer, Sis,” he said warmly. “Looking great. You ready?”

“As ever I can be,” she replied.

Reagan offered her his arm, and she took it, pausing for a deep breath.

“Is everyone here?” Her voice was soft and nervous. He was reminded just how young Sally was, despite how responsible and mature she had always seemed.

“Cousin Algie just got here. Oh, and your teacher friend?”

“Professor Sprout is here?” She beamed. “I can’t believe it.”

“Wait until you see her date,” he grinned. He checked his watch. “And… one minute.”

“Oh, tell me, she brought a plus one?” Her hand was squeezing her brother’s arm a little too tightly as her nervousness was clear.

“A tall witch, silver hair cut a lot like Angela’s, golden eyes like a hawk.”

Sally turned to him, mouth agape. “Madam Hooch? She came with Madam Hooch? No!”

“Well, they’re wearing matching robes and were holding hands after we seated them. This is news?”

“I guess, I mean, I just never… Wow. Sprout and Hooch. Goodness.”

“It’s time.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Angela is the luckiest witch in the world, Sally.”

“Second luckiest,” she muttered as they entered the hall, and turned to walk down the aisle.

As they reached the back of the hall, she saw all of the faces turned towards her. She and Reagan paused, taking in the fifty gathered friends and family. Tiny professor Flitwick, beaming at them from his small platform, looking very dapper in his muggle-style white tie and tails, just as she remembered him from Frog Choir. The music, provided by two of her former Ravenclaw classmates on cello and viola, paused as she and Reagan took a moment.

With a murmur of affection and admiration from the crowd, Angela and her father Max joined Reagan and Sally at the end of the broad aisle. Sneaking a peak, Sally saw that as planned Angela was wearing the same dress as she, but in a pale blue, and had adorned her ear with a number of sapphire and diamond studs. Her short hair was slightly upswept, and her eyes were accented with a little deep blue mascara.

Sally gasped quietly, and turned her face quickly forward. If she cried now her own makeup would be a wreck for the entire ceremony. She herself had gone very simple, a little blush, a little lipstick that complimented her auburn hair, just enough mascara to make her fair lashes visible, and ruby earrings with a matching pendant. She tried to take another deep breath, but her body rebelled, too excited and nervous to breathe.

Her classmates put bows to strings, and a beautifully eclectic arrangement of Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” swelled gently in the brightly lit hall. The sunny weather forEaster the previous day had turned damp and windy, with the threat of rain, but Sally saw nothing but the candles suspended in air, reflected off the glasses of Professor Flitwick, as the two women were escorted down the aisle.

Later, Sally and Angela would both study every photo, listen to every story, and relive every moment with their families and friends, but honestly neither of the women could recall more than scattered images from the ceremony itself. The long promenade down the aisle? Completely forgotten.

Sally found herself, suddenly it seemed, in front of the assembled guests. Reagan leaned in and kissed her cheek. With a dimpled grin and a wink, he took his seat next to their mother, who was wearing a lovely set of dress robes, with her hair artfully done and a highly anti-tear-charmed mascara in place. Angela’s mother, Gerta, a stout and apple-cheeked witch in a classic black robe, was joined by her husband Max. They were quite a bit older than Sally’s parents, as Angela had been a midlife surprise to her delighted parents after many happy but childless years.

Sally realized that the music had stopped, and she was standing alone with Angela before professor Flitwick. Even on his little platform, he came only to Sally’s shoulders. His luxurious mustache had not a hint of grey or silver, and his bare chin gave him a boyish aspect. When he spoke, however, his high, clear voice clearly carried to the assembled guests with authority.

 _“_ Friends, family, loving couple: love is an act of courage, without which we live in exile, isolated and individual, until we are blessed by the embrace of another. Love liberates us, entwines us, binds us into families. Love arrives and shared joys are magnified, shared sorrows diminished. True love strikes the chains of fear from our spirits and frees us to the greater truth, that we are, all of us together, the family of humanity. We are bold in love, we are loyal in love, we are clever in love, and we are ambitious in love. When the veils of ignorance, of loneliness, of fear, and of temptation are removed from our eyes, we see with true sight. In the presence of these people gathered here, and without hesitation, compulsion, or reservation, I ask you now to embrace these vows. _”_

He turned to Angela.

“Angela Wilhelmina Beck, do you now, freely and honestly, in the eyes of this assembled company, take Sally Hill to be your beloved partner, from this day forward, and forsaking all others, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Angela said clearly, her lower lip beginning to tremble, her eyes shining.

“Sally Ariadne Hill, do you now, freely and honestly, in the eyes of this assembled company, take Angela Beck to be your beloved partner, from this day forward, and forsaking all others, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do!” Sally’s answer was almost comically eager, but one look at Angela’s face told her that she appreciated Sally’s unhesitating response.

“And so, the rings.” Flitwick made a subtle motion with his wand, and two white gold bands floated up between the two witches.

“The circle of the band represents the circle of eternity, without beginning, and without end. When you take your partner’s ring upon your finger, you declare to the world that you are no longer alone, but instead that you are partners together, from this day forward.”

Sally plucked Angela’s ring from the air, and slid it onto Angela’s finger.

“I, Sally, take you, Angela, from this day forward.”

The ring that Angela put on her finger was not cold metal, but warm as an embrace.

“Ich, Angela, nimm dich, Sally, von diesem Tag an.”

“Friends,” Professor Flitwick proclaimed, “I am proud to present to you, Angela and Sally Beck-Hill. Ladies, I believe a kiss would be traditional.”

They leaned in for what Sally had planned on making a quick, ceremonial peck, but Angela clearly had other ideas. After a long moment, blushing and breathless, the two witches turned to face their friends and family. To applause, tears, and a few cheers, they waved together. As the strings began an exuberant recessional with an arrangement of Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About,” Angela and Sally headed back up the aisle.

At the reception which followed, having stopped only to put on her flats, Sally shook dozens of hands, accepted dozens of kisses, and found herself far, far too far away from Angela as they were pulled along by the crowd. Fitting the untraditional nature of the event, the first dance would be the Father-Daughter dance, followed by the newly joined witches’ first dance as a couple. Reagan had offered to dance with her for the “Father-Daughter” portion of the festivities, but Sally had declined. Walking her down the aisle had been enough.

There was a flash, and the electric lights flickered and went out as they heard a clap of thunder, leaving only levitating candles to light the reception. After a few minutes, the party resumed as various wizards and witches contributed additional magical lighting. The small musical combo who had been providing music resumed playing, only to stop a few minutes later to announce the upcoming first dance. Soon, Sally knew, Angela would dance with her father, and then Sally would finally have a turn to hold Angela in her arms, even though it would be before dozens of friends’ and families’ eyes. The sound of rain pounding the roof provided a background.

Sally excused herself, and edged towards exit, thinking she might step out to the sheltered portico while Angela and Max shared their moment. As she reached for the door, it swung open, and another lightning flash backlit a man in the doorway. As the thunder crashed from the nearby lightning, Sally tried to make out the rain-bedraggled figure, who pulled the door closed behind him. As her eyes adjusted once more, she was shocked to see her father.

“Hello, Sunshine,” he said, panting. “Sorry. Couldn’t find an entrance, been running from door to door in the bloody rain.”

“What… what are you doing here?” She hugged her arms around herself defensively.

He looked at her hand, and saw the ring on her finger. His face twisted in a grimace of shame and pain.

“I was an ass, Sally. I missed the service. I’ve missed everything.”

“Yes,” she said boldly. “You did miss it. When I needed you, you were gone. Reagan walked me down the aisle. Reagan came home to support me, not you.”

She turned away, too angry to give in to tears.

“Sally,” he called after her. “Please, just listen…”

She stopped, but didn’t turn to face him.

“I was wrong. I was… I was hurtful, and I can never make that up to you, to both of you. You’re my daughter, and the more time went by the harder it was to admit what a terrible mess of things I’ve made. Your mother sent me an invitation–I know it wasn’t you. If you want me to go, I will. But please, _Merlin_ , please? Just let me see my daughter and her wife, her partner, whatever you tell me to call you… I want you and Angela to know I am so, so sorry. I just want you to be happy.”

She tapped her leg rapidly with her hand as she always did when she was agitated, he saw, and then she turned around to face him, looking at him critically.

“Well, you better do something about the state of you, then. You’ve got about two minutes before the Father-Daughter dance, I imagine.” She saw his face fill with joy, but she cut him short with her next words. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for me, because this is what I always imagined, and for mother, because she has been nobly miserable since the day you left and I know she’s madly in love with you still. Let’s get through this dance, and let me and Angela have our dance after. After that, we’ll see.”

He quickly vanished the water from his robes, though she could scarcely see improvement on his face, as tears immediately began to roll down his cheeks. He reached out his hand to her, almost fearfully, and showed visible relief when she took it in hers.

“Come on then, Daddy,” she sighed, pulling him back towards the reception hall.

Much later, as the young people danced to whatever they called music these days, Patricia Hill stood next to her husband, not touching his arm, but close by. Peter was listening to Max share stories in fairly good English about his days at Durmstrang, and the hardships there after the War. Gerta followed along, but she understood English much more comfortably than she spoke it, so her contributions were primarily in the form of warm, broad smiles and nods.

Both of the Becks were older, but like the Hills, they were a mix of a family with a long magical history, and one relatively new to magic. Gerta’s family had been well established in Vienna, while Max was the son of a baker from Innsbruck, in the Austrian Alps. When Patricia shared proudly that Peter had owned a pub, passed down from his grandfather, when they met, the two men began a warm discussion of food and beer. Gerta managed to communicate to Peter that the girls had met at a famous restaurant in Germany, but neither would share any details beyond that.

As Peter asked question after question about their family, their daughter, their experiences in Austria, and their lives together, Patricia found herself remembering just how charming Peter could be. She also noticed, cheeks warmed perhaps by several gillywater cocktails, how attractive he was, still broad-shouldered, a little thicker in the middle, but still visibly the same man who had swept her off her feet thirty years previously.

From across the room, an untouched cocktail in hand, Reagan stood easily along the wall, watching his sister and her partner dancing, seeing the joy in their eyes. He was careful never to drink much while in uniform, and he had made one circuit of the more eligible ladies present on the dance floor already. He had an early flight out to rejoin his unit. Rumor was they might be deployed to Bosnia as peacekeepers before year’s end, and he needed to be on the bounce when he returned. He saw his mother, laughing at something his father had said, reach out and take his arm as they spoke with the Becks.

He managed to catch Sally’s eye at last, where she and Angela danced slowly together, nearly blind to the world. He nodded towards their parents, then indicated the nearby exit after pointing to his watch. They had already said their goodbyes.

Sally smiled, and put her hand to her heart. He returned the gesture with a smile, and slipped away. By the time Sally and Angela left for their “honeymoon” week in Spain, Corporal Reagan Hill was riding in a loud, rattling Lockheed C130 Hercules into Germany, the world of witchcraft and wizardry far from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, while I consider this a wedding, as do some of those involved, there was a lot of debate in the 1990s about what to call and how to view such events, with some arguing that calling them marriage ignored the struggle for legal recognition, while others put forward the idea that calling them something else implied that LGBTQ+ relationships were fundamentally different in nature to "traditional" legal marriage.
> 
> As for the service itself, Professor Flitwick's text is clearly inspired by Maya Angelou's poem "Touched by an Angel" for which I could not quickly locate a date of authorship, but which I gladly cite as inspirational.
> 
> The idea that Flying Instructor Madam Rolanda Hooch would attend this event with her "longtime companion" Professor Pomona Sprout (delightfully portrayed by LGBTQ+ actress Miriam Margolyes in the films) is entirely my notion, but it is a recurring head cannon in my works.


	12. The Former Yugoslavia, February, 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan Hill, serving with UNPROFOR in the Former Yugoslavia during Operation Grapple in 1994, turns a horrible act of terror into an opportunity for hope, healing, and love. 
> 
> A good man, that Reagan Hill, so long as you stay off his bad side...

_Split, the Former Yugoslavia, 07:00 hours, 8 February 1994_

The Royal Military Police major from the Special Investigative Branch was leafing through Corporal Reagan Hill’s files. Service records, fitness reports, and so on. He paid special attention to the young corporal’s written testimony about the incident under investigation, comparing it to what evidence the SIB had been able to gather, and interview transcripts with other soldiers in his unit. He closed the file and spent a moment messing the young man sitting rigidly opposite him.

The room shook as a convoy of Warrior armored fighting vehicles rumbled past outside. While the cluster of buildings in the Croatian city of Split was called a headquarters, it was primarily an administrative base, scant on amenities. The primary deployment of British troops was in the Bosnian stronghold of Vitez, almost 200 kilometers away, which is where Hill and his unit had been stationed the day of the incident.

The major finally took a moment to once again evaluate the young soldier sitting across from him. Hill showed no signs of “deployment drift,” the slackening of standards sometimes found after multiple deployments to hotspots like the Balkans. His hair was regulation, his uniform properly cared for, and even the short, ginger-brown mustache allowed by regulations had been trimmed to meet the requirements of his issued S10 CBRN Respirator mask. Most importantly, his eyes were lively and direct, not the flat affected stare of the soldier who had been over-coached to sell a story.

“One last time, Hill. Walk me through the evening.” He waved at the files on his desk. “Not the official language. Just one more time, like we’re sitting in a pub over a pint, tell me what went down.”

Hill met his eyes for a moment, and his eyebrows raised a matter of millimeters, as close to skepticism as the young shoulder would show. This more than anything indicated to the major that he was dealing with a straight arrow, Still, another soldier was dead, and the story needed to be heard.

Hill took a moment to organize his thoughts and leaned forward slightly. He did not clasp his hands tightly, something the major had been trained that well-practiced liars often did to prevent excessive hand gestures from betraying their falsehoods.

Hill began speaking, telling his story in a relatable way, still somewhat formal and military in his language but with a nod to the conversational tone, the major had asked for.

_Vitez, the Former Yugoslavia, 17:00 hours, 5 February 1994_

There were only six of us from the section on patrol that afternoon. Wayne and Fraser were recovering from that viral pneumonia that had been going around. Fraser said he was feeling better, but activity reports had been light, so I made the decision to keep him back another day. I informed my sergeant, and the only thing he said was to have one of my men swap his L85 for Wayne’s L96A1 for long-range support and spotting. PFC Wilcox was well-qualified with the '96, so I had him pick it up. I made a comment about him being our eyes, and he laughed. It didn’t seem unusual in any way at the time. Wilcox and Fraser were both cutups in the section. Never anything out of bounds, just jokers like any section has, or so everyone thought.

We relieved the Sergeant’s section, overlooking the approach to the Općina Vitez from on and around the post office at the corner of Far Grge Martića and, uh, Hrvatskih Braniteljia, I believe it’s called. Wilcox was on the post office roof, using the optics on his '96 for overwatch from the prepared position there we had used before. Eddington and Wayne were under heavy cover about 15 meters from the bus station, with clear fields of fire down the main road towards the Općina, as well as visibility to our adjacent forces positioned near the damaged mosque to the north. Paddick and Newell were on foot, patrolling a sweep along the main road, doing a soft power projection. They were wearing soft cover rather than helmets, they handed out some Cadbury bars to some of the kids. Newell has a bit of language, so he was greeting people, mostly oldsters and a few women and children who were coming back from the open market. 

I was near the market that stretches down towards the river, south of the post office. I was aware that both Wilcox and I were isolated, so I made sure to angle his way every five minutes or so and give him a visual check. He stayed covert as per orders and did not visually acknowledge.

Just before 17:00, the light was rapidly fading, and I made the decision to pull Newell and Paddick off the street. I sent radioed Wilcox to observe their approach to the post office, and he acknowledged with two clicks on the channel. This wasn’t typical but we’d used nonverbal response from overwatch before, usually when they were using the optics to observe subjects at a distance. I honestly didn’t think anything about it.

I was on the far side of the market, closer to the river, and working my way back towards the road. It had been maybe ten minutes since my last visual check-in, maybe I’d taken too long because the market as shutting down, and I was keeping an eye on the riverbank. It wasn’t a violation of procedure, but looking back I know I should have kept the five-minute interval, or required an audible check from Wilcox.

I was on the radio with Eddington, verifying that night vision was tested and ready at the far post. Eddington confirmed when I hear a broken transmission from Paddick. I was moving towards the road already, and I waited a minute for him to repeat. In less than a minute I heard him say the PO was in site, with no sign of Wilcox. I started moving quickly, but running through the market could cause a panic, so I was just double-timing it.

About the time I had a visual on the PO, Paddick was covering the door downstairs, and Newell was on the roof, giving a negative signal. I immediately called out for Wilcox on the radio for a sit-rep.

He replied immediately, saying he’d moved to the southwest one block after sighting a possible POI, a person of interest from one of our watch orders. I told him to hold his position until we could provide support, but he did not respond. I told Newell to hold position and observe what he could, and I joined Paddick on the PO steps, which took maybe three minutes. Paddick had been making calls to Wilcox without response. We had just started moving southwest when I heard small arms fire ahead of us. Due to the position and density of the buildings, it was not possible for me to be sure of calibre or direction. When we reached the corner, I told Paddick to cover us to the north and east, while I made a rapid move around the corner and into cover behind a civilian vehicle.

I could see Wilcox. He was crouching behind a previously disabled local militia vehicle across the street, maybe 15 meters in front of my position. He had his L96A1 deployed on the roof of the vehicle, supported on the bipod, and was sighting through the optics.

Before I could radio or move to his position, I saw him fire down the street at a target I could not observe from my position. I immediately moved down the street to cover his position, and as I drew abreast of him, I saw him turn to see me. He was smiling and seemed uninjured. At this time, he took fire from an unseen shooter behind my position, I assume on the rooftop. He was hit by at least one round and went down. I fired suppressing fire into the buildings behind me and made a quick move to his position. I pulled him behind the vehicle and called Paddick with a sit-rep. While I provided emergency support aid, I herd Paddick calling for assistance. The rest of the section checked in and coordinated medical evacuation, and the response commander deployed two FV510 fighting vehicles, one to cover each end of the block.

I was told that Wilcox did not regain consciousness after arriving for treatment. By the time he was treated, he had lost too much blood and succumbed to his injuries.

We never determined the target of Wilcox’s fire. No POIs were found at the time or over the next 24 hours during our sweeps. There was evidence of fire into and from several surrounding buildings, but nothing conclusively linked to the attack on PFC Wilcox.

It has become my personal belief that Wilcox was somehow lured from his position, and then ambushed by an individual or small group of hostiles who subsequently escaped our sweeps.

My own recommendations following action included amending SOP to provide for two riflemen in overwatch at all times, either together or capable of providing visual support to one another. Had this been done doing this patrol, either I would have stayed with Wilcox and left the market to visual perimeter analysis, or I would have detailed Newell to stay with Wilcox while Paddick and I combined soft power with the market patrol. I stand by my decision to leave Fraser off duty, as we have seen more force depletion from illness than enemy action, even including this incident.

_Split, the Former Yugoslavia, 08:30 hours, 8 February 1994_

The SIB major took a last sip of tea from the metal cup on the desk in front of him. Like just about everything else in the Balkans, it was cold and not very good. He was certain that Hill was editing his responses, retreating to jargon and report-speak a few times, but that was not unusual with subjects being interview by Special Branch. If Hill had been completely comfortable, in fact, it would have been substantially more concerning.

He stood, and Hill rose at once to attention.

“As you were, corporal.” Hill moved to at-ease, a no less formal position in a trained soldier. The major reached down and closed the folder on his desk. “I understand that you’ve requested leave pending this inquiry. I see no reason why I cannot approve that. You’re overdue. Maybe ten days with your family is just what you need about now, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“You’ll hear something officially within the next 24 hours. Why not go check on your men and arrange for a rotation through HQ here for them before you go. I’m sure they would enjoy the, oh let’s call them comforts, of beautiful downtown Split after 13 weeks in Vitez.”

Hill allowed himself a tight grin, imagining that his men would be delighted to come off the line for a spell after their recent woes.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

_Vitez, the Former Yugoslavia, 17:00 hours, 5 February 1994 [unedited version]_

Reagan could see Wilcox. He was crouching behind a previously disabled local militia vehicle across the street, maybe 15 meters in front of his position. He had his L96A1 deployed on the roof of the vehicle, supported on the bipod, as was sighting through the optics. He was laughing as he targeted someone downrange from their position.

“Goodbye, Papa Bear…” His voice was clearly audible, followed immediately by his shot. As Reagan sprinted the street to cover his position, he saw three figures in the distance. One was on the ground, a dark coat and a spilled shopping bag, nothing more. The other, a young woman was screaming and clutching what he took to be an infant wrapped in a red coat. Just as Reagan reached Wilcox, he heard the man say deliberately, “Just the Mama Bear, now. Why waste a second bullet?” Reagan called out, “Wilcox!”

He turned and caught sight of Reagan. He was smiling, and quickly returned to his scope, training his long-range rifle at the unarmed woman. As he sighted through his scope, Reagan leapt towards him, swinging his infantry rifle towards Wilcox’s shoulder in an attempt to stop the shot. Just as he connected, turning Wilcox around to face him, the red flash of a stunning spell lit up the dim avenue. Wilcox was grazed, and the combination of the blow from a rifle and the impact of the spell spun Wilcox into the rubble-strewn concrete. Reagan was knocked down as well, and as he tried to rise, he saw that Wilcox still held on to his rifle, and was turning it to point towards him, face flushed with frustrated rage.

Reagan acted on instinct, saving his life, as a shot from his rifle at point-blank range destroyed Wilcox’s shoulder, causing his own shot to go wide of the mark as the long gun fell from his senseless fingers. Reagan prepared to fire again, but Wilcox collapsed backward, arterial spray from his shoulder painting a crimson arc on the nearby pavement as he fell.

Still feeling the adrenaline surging into his blood, Reagan heard the distinctive pop of apparating wizards. Two Aurors, a witch in traditional British robes, and an older wizard in the distinctive fur collar typical of graduates of Durmstrang, had arrived, and the wizard raised his wand swiftly towards Reagan.

“Wait, wait!” Regan threw down his rifle, hands open, palms towards the two wizards. “Special Rule 13, Rule 13!”

“Two wizards are dead,” grumbled the wizard. “Let’s obliviate and go.”

“Wait, I’m Reagan Hill, my father is Peter Hill? This was my man, but he was NOT following orders. Let me handle him?”

“Fine,” said the witch. “We can take the baby to HQ. Another for the fucking orphanages.” She turned, and raised her wand to apparate. In less than a minute, both the Aurors and the murdered family, plus the infant, were gone.

Reagan fired a spray of rounds into the building behind him, then went to Wilcox. Wilcox was gaping, gasping like a landed fish, and looked unseeing towards Reagan as he began a cursory examination of the damage to Wilcox’s shoulder. Regulations and training indicated compression with direct pressure while waiting for medical help, plus opiates from the combat medical kit he carried.

It is possible that in his haste, Reagan forgot to administer any painkillers to Wilcox. Instead, his focus was in “compression with direct pressure,” until the bone fragments grated together in what remained of Wilcox’s shoulder, and the man passed out.

Reagan was on the radio, issuing orders and coordinating his men in a careful redirection of the events of the last few minutes. Wilcox was dead within ninety minutes. Aleksandar and Sajra Stjepanić, ages 27 and 19, were dead within minutes of each other on the streets of Vitez. Their child, no known surviving family, age approximately seven months, name unknown, survived.

_Hill House, 14 February 1994_

Reagan watched with anticipation as his sister Sally unwrapped the blanket from the face of the small, peacefully sleeping bundle held in her partner’s arms. Her own face began to tremble, as her lips quivered and her eyes creased with inexpressible joy. She looked quickly to Angela, whose own eyes were locked in wonder at the tiny person in her arms.

“ _Perfekt_ ,” Angela said breathlessly, unable to tear her eyes away from the baby she was holding. Wild hippogriffs could not have torn that child from her arms, she was sure.

“Yes,” Sally said softly. “Such a perfect little man. I can still scarcely believe it.

Peter Hill, from where he stood by the fire, watching his daughter, spoke quietly to Peter.

“I’m still not sure how you were able to make this happen, son. Adoption among wizard families in Britain is fairly informal but there are… complications… when dealing with, um, less conventional families.”

“It’s okay to say gay parents, Daddy,” Sally said over her shoulder, still cooing and fussing over the baby. “We exist.”

“No, no,” he said quickly, “I just mean, some people throw up obstacles. Prejudice, or just ignorance. I hadn’t even known it was possible here at present.”

Reagan, allowing himself to relax for the first time in some days, took a seat by his mother, who handed him a flute of champagne.

“When I told the authorities in Sarajevo that I could guarantee the boy a permanent placement, with an established wizard family in Britain, and ensure that he would be brought up in accordance with our laws and customs, they were happy to arrange it. It’s terrible the orphan crisis. Muggles, magical, mixed-bloods, some with no idea of their heritage, some without even a name…”

“Speaking of,” his mother said, resting a comforting hand on her son’s arm, “have you two decided on a name? There are many fine Selwyn family names to choose from. As well as lovely names from your father’s family, I’m sure.”

Peter looked at his wife skeptically. She had recently been more open in the past about celebrating her own family’s traditions and connections, though there were in truth very few Selwyns left in the wizarding world. His own family, though less impressive of bloodline and history, was nevertheless a vibrant group, with extensive magical and muggle branches.

“We considered Otto and Klaus,” Sally said, making her mother cough slightly into her champagne glass, “but we decided to honor one of your ancestors and one of father’s. Donalbane Fitch Beck-Hill, after father’s great, great, whatever grandfather, who died fighting in the American Colonies. But we shall call him Douglas, after mother’s uncle who flew those Spitfire aeroplanes during the War.”

Angela, reluctantly passing the baby to Sally, pointed out, “And you can be his _mother_ , and I shall be his _mama_.” She took her glass and tossed back a generous sip of champagne. Hello

“Who cares?” Sally looked closely at the small, red-faced infant in her arms. His eyes opened, and he yawned. “He’s looking at me, see? Hullo, Douglas. Hullo, my sweet little man.”

“Douglas, eh?” Reagan raised his glass, “Well, here’s to Douglas. Happy Valentine’s Day, Sis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the disposition of British troops in Split and Vitez are historical, the complexities of the breakup of Yugoslavia and the various stages of the resulting conflicts do not lend themselves to easy understanding to the casual historian such as myself. Therefore, details of the forces, actions, and locations of events have been simplified for this story. 
> 
> The L85A1 rifle was current, as a much-maligned new piece of gear, while snipers and long-range support troops were in fact provided with the Accuracy International L96A1, typically fitted with telescopic optical sights.
> 
> I did not have period-accurate information on the radio communication gear and protocols used in the British Army at this time, thus the lack of detail in that regard. 
> 
> Special Rule 13, presumably dealing with the Statutes of Secrecy and Muggle family members of witches and wizards, is entirely my own invention and so far as I know does not exist elsewhere in fan fiction. 
> 
> Any resemblance between Patricia Hill's Uncle Douglas, "who flew those Spitfire aeroplanes during the war," and actual war hero Group Captain Douglas Bader is entirely coincidental. 100%. Trust me.
> 
> The Warrior FV510 was a tracked Infantry Fighting Vehicle, a tracked troop transport designed to transport and provide fire support to British infantry sections. They were deployed extensively during Operation Grapple.
> 
> Finally, adoption is and will remain an important part of providing safe, loving families to wizards and muggles alike. Please support not-for-profit organizations that provide assistance to adoptive parents and children around the world. Thank you.


	13. London, December, 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of "A Solider and Two Witches." Thank you for coming along for the ride.

_Reagan’s Flat, London, 22 December,1994_

Reagan lowered the last box from the hand truck he’d used to shift them up the steps onto the floor of his flat. His sister Sally was holding a piece of paper, her face inscrutable as she examined the arcane symbols and complex instructions required to achieve the transformation that she was attempting.

“Are you sure you don’t want help with that?” Reagan idly scratched at the short beard he’d taken to wearing since his separation from the infantry in October. There seemed to be a lot more ginger in his beard than in his hair, and he was of two minds about keeping it.

“No, this is something I have to do myself,” Sally said at last. She placed the paper down on top of one of several cartons scattered around her. She reached for her wand, muttering _“Bestå, Bestå…”_

“Oy, no magic! This is supposed to be a Muggle flat. You know that.” He grinned, and grabbed a bottle from the kitchenette, popping the top off of a Belhaven Wee Heavy and enjoying a sip of the cool, roasted malty tones. He watched Sally consult her diagrams once more, then took the paper from her hands.

“And they said you were the clever one,” he teased. “Okay, have you got the little metal peg bastards, there are twelve of them? Great, and then there are six of the feet…”

“But why are there six feet? Four feet can hold up an elephant, and it weighs tons and tons,” Sally complained. “Who are these bastards at IKEA that think your telly stand needs six? And three kinds of screws, and two lengths of whatever these things are… Won’t you please, please let me just transfigure you some furnishings? I promise, I’ll never ask you to mind Douglas again?”

He laughed, and sat down next to her, spreading the bits and bobs from the plastic bags out, and smoothing out the directions. “Okay, you hold the little peg fellows, and I’ll put the feet on this piece here… No, no holes, this piece… no… oh, it is this first one, but we had it upside down.”

Sally had agreed to help her brother settle into his new flat, not far at all from where she and Angela had their business, and where they lived with their son Douglas. He’d settled into a job at a fitness centre, teaching advanced fitness and doing some self-defense training as well. He liked that he could walk to work or to his sister’s from his flat, something he often did just for exercise, which seemed insane to Sally.

Still, he was staying fit, and spent a fair amount of time with his nephew, and even made it to their parents’ house from time to time. She was very happy, and she saw that Reagan had set aside some of the melancholy that had followed him home from the Balkans. Now, if only she could find him a good girl to settle down with.

She watched him, slowly making sense of the Scandinavian puzzle scattered across the floor. He seemed, over all, rather happy. Her parents were happy. She and Angela were very happy. Douglas was, well, she hadn’t known what happiness was, really, before.

Life was good.

_Note: Sally, Angela, Reagan, and Douglas also appear in Waske’s story,[“The Realistic Evens of the Order of the Phoenix."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695489)_


End file.
